


in the electricity of your touch

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dirty Talk, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mpreg, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-25 04:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2608076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After returning to Hogwarts after the war, Harry realizes he has nothing to do. There is nothing to chase, or to fight. Why, then does he feel as if there is something pricking under his skin? And why does it feel like he’s struck by lightning every time Draco Malfoy touches him? There’s only one explanation: Draco Malfoy is up to something, and Harry has to find out what it is and put a stop to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. CHAPTER ONE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nattish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nattish/gifts).



> Oh my dear. I tried to hit as many of your likes/wants as I possibly could, and I hope you enjoy this! It wanted to run away with me and become a novel, but I have reined it in. So many, many thanks to J, who was there with me from about the middle of the story and was absolutely instrumental in keeping me on track when my narrative threatened to wander off into things that didn’t even make sense. He deserves all credit for the things that work; any oddities or failures of spelling/grammar crept in during the final edit.

“Harry!” 

Hermione’s voice is a strident whisper, hissing into his ear, and Harry wonders just how many times she’s said his name already. He looks up from where he sits at breakfast, his chin resting on his hand as he stares off into the distance. “Hm?”

“Don’t start trouble,” she tells him, nudging him with her elbow.

He frowns and leans back, just enough to get away from her poking. “I’m not starting trouble, Hermione. I’m just… daydreaming. Can’t a bloke do that once in a while, now that I’m not running for my life?”

“It’s a month into the school year and you’re staring at the Slytherin table. _Again_.”

“I’m not.”

“Hate to say it mate, but you are.” Ron pushes a basket of rolls towards Harry, then a small tub of marmalade. “Every morning like clockwork, and I’d say you might be subtle about it, except there aren’t all that many of them to be staring at. Unless you’ve started fancying Parkinson.”

Harry flushes from the base of his throat up to the tips of his ears. “You know that’s not true. I wouldn’t.”

“Well, given that Ginny’d have your head for throwing her over for someone who tried to hand you over to You-Know-Who, yeah, I know.” Ron pats his arm gently. “We’re on your side here, mate, but the war’s over. You’ve got to stop thinking Malfoy’s up to something.”

Harry opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again because he has absolutely no idea what to say. He can’t say he wasn’t watching Malfoy. Maybe he wasn’t looking specifically at him, but he was staring in the direction of the table. Just past it, really. Because he doesn’t want to see the way Malfoy leans into Theodore Nott while he’s speaking, brushes his arm up against him when he reaches for the pumpkin juice. It’s a terrible display of affection _right there in public_ and Harry can’t stand to see it.

Why the bloody hell should it be so easy for _Malfoy_ to get over the war when Harry’s still struggling with it himself? Harry’s got nightmares, and no girlfriend, and Malfoy’s got all his friends, a bloody boyfriend (and an overly blatantly _out_ sexuality), and life seems to be turning up perfect.

Of course it would.

Harry scowls. “I think I’m going to grow a beard.”

“A beard?” Hermione’s brow furrows in confusion. “Harry, can you even do that?”

“I shave every day,” he mutters. “I can grow a bloody beard, Hermione. It’s just bloody facial hair. Anyone can do it. Remember that scruff I got when we were on the run?”

Her expression gentles. “It wasn’t exactly a _beard_ ,” she says softly. “More like a prickle-bush crash-landed on your chin.” He glares at her, and she raises her hands, protesting. “If you want to grow a beard, then yes, by all means, go ahead and do so. I’m just voicing an opinion as regards personal grooming. Perhaps you ought to look into one of those trimmer kits, so you can do it neatly.”

“Do you like beards then?” Ron leans in close to Hermione, grinning. “I could probably grow one as well, if that’s what you like.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “Ron, I’ve seen you after several days of not shaving, and you’re lucky to have a few spots of facial hair. Please, save us all and don’t try.”

Ron grumbles, and Hermione touches his hand, and when they start looking at each other like the sun rises and sets in their eyes, Harry looks away. He rests his chin on his hand and looks off into the distance—which might be in the direction of the Slytherin table, but also might not—and tries not to think about anything other than a beard.

It’s the perfect solution.

#

“You’re supposed to put the kneazle fur in the potion, Potter, not stick it to your face.” Malfoy’s tone is dry and somewhat disgusted. “Honestly, I don’t know why I’m partnered with you. I refuse to get terrible marks simply because my Potions partner is sub-par.”

“I didn’t choose you, and you didn’t choose me,” Harry snaps, rubbing at his upper lip. It does _not_ look like random kneazle hairs. It does _not_. His mustache is almost acceptable, and the smattering of hair that litters his cheeks and chin should grow in more fully within a few days. “I’m not terrible at potions, so bloody well leave off. My beard isn’t hurting you.”

“Oh, I’d say it’s harming my eyes.” Malfoy shields them with one hand, peering between his fingers. “And it is most definitely harming my delicate sensibilities. Haven’t you ever heard of personal grooming, Potter? There are spells for that.”

“I’m trying to grow it, not eradicate it,” he snaps, chopping viciously at whatever ingredient Malfoy last pushed towards him. “You can be a pretty boy if you want—I’m sure Nott prefers you that way—but I’m not a ponce, Malfoy.”

Malfoy snickers. “If you think being gay means not having facial hair, you are sadly deluded, but we’ll let you continue with your assumptions. In the meantime, if you ever want to hear about the joys of stubble burn, I’d be happy to explain.”

Stubble burn.

Malfoy _likes_ stubble burn.

For one brief, irrational moment, Harry has the strangest image of burying his face against Malfoy’s throat, just rubbing his cheek and lips there until that marble skin goes red with tiny pinpricks, rough and irritated by Harry’s scruff.

It makes no sense whatsoever.

Harry swallows hard and looks down at the tiny pieces of… he’s not even sure what. He scoops it up and tosses it into the cauldron, pausing only long enough to make sure Malfoy isn’t going to stop him from doing so. He’s lost track of the recipe at this point, and he rather hopes Malfoy’s been paying attention, so they don’t end up with an explosion worthy of Seamus Finnigan.

“Maybe you ought to tell Nott to grow his own beard,” Harry mutters. “And ask if you can be _his_ partner in Potions. Then the two of you can bloody well snog through the class and I can get some work done.”

There’s a small pause, and Harry can hear the twist of a smile in Malfoy’s reply. “Nott’s not even in this class, Potter.”

He looks up, takes in the others in the room. The N.E.W.T. level Potions class for the returning 8th year students is small, and Harry knows everyone in it. Nott isn’t there.

Hermione is, however, and she is watching him with a concerned look from across the room, where she and Neville are brewing.

He blinks twice, then drops his gaze. “Well, then, I suppose I’m stuck with you.”

“I suppose you are.”

Harry tries to wrestle himself under control, calm the pinpricks of fight or flight that are crawling under his skin. It’s just because he’s back in school and the world isn’t ending or exploding this year. There is _nothing_ that he has to run away from or fight. It’s just him and the classes and hopefully some halfway decent marks when the year is done.

He sucks in air, lets it out slowly, and when he looks up again, Malfoy is watching him.

One pale eyebrow arches delicately. “Are we done with whatever existential crisis is storming about inside your head, and may now continue with our potion before we overbrew this particular step?”

“Yeah.” Harry reaches out, gathers in the aforementioned kneazle fur and starts measuring it out carefully even though he doesn’t know exactly how much it's supposed to be. “Go on and get the rest of it together while I get this in. I’ll take care of the stirring.”

“If you’re sure you’re up for it.” Malfoy touches Harry’s hand and they both go absolutely still, Harry with his arm outstretched over the cauldron, kneazle fur clutched between his fingers. His hand is _hot_ , tingling like he’s been stabbed with an electrical wire, and he feels like he can’t breathe.

He manages to force his fingers apart, hair floating into the potion. He makes a face at the look of it, and the _stench_ once Malfoy adds what looks like shredded onion root. “I’m up for it,” he manages to say, his voice far quieter than he intends. He grabs the spoon and starts to stir, cycles of three clockwise rotations and one time anti-clockwise for a total of five minutes.

He watches the way the liquid swirls, a disgusting brown color with shades of shimmering blue running through it. It’s fascinating, almost hypnotizing the way it moves, and anything’s better than seeing that poleaxed expression on Malfoy’s face. Like maybe he felt it too. Whatever _it_ was.

It was _nothing_.

Unless Malfoy’s up to something.

Harry bets Malfoy is up to something.

#

After two weeks, Harry’s beard is finally thick. He manages to trim it neatly, the spots of hair coming together in a scruff across his chin and over his lip. When he looks in the mirror, he no longer sees a boy looking out, instead he sees a man staring back at him.

A stranger, really, if he’s honest with himself.

“It’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be,” Neville says, squeezing in next to him in the boys’ bath. “Budge up just a bit and share the mirror, yeah? I need to get ready, or we’ll be late for breakfast.”

Ron’s already headed down, and Harry has no idea where Seamus and Dean are. He avoids the eighth year boys from other houses, just uncomfortable enough with being the saviour that he prefers to stick to the familiar faces he spent the first seven years with.

He leans on the edge of the sink, staring into the mirror, trying to convince himself to go finish getting dressed and go downstairs. He can’t say why he hesitates, but he’s just not quite ready to face the day. He rocks on his toes when Neville nudges him.

“Harry?”

“Hm, yeah, Nev?” He pulls back, running fingers through his hair, trying to tame the unruly strands at least a little.

“I’ve been wondering…” Neville’s voice trails off, and he hunches his shoulders, reminding Harry starkly of the small, round boy he met long ago, rather than the confident man he’s been of late.

“Out with it, Neville. You’re a war hero. Whatever you’re about to say can’t possibly compare to Voldemort,” Harry teases, and Neville flushes but he straightens his shoulders and stands tall.

“You’re right. It’s just… Ginny.” Neville tries again, failing to get words out in a manner that Harry can understand. Harry makes a hand motion, and Neville seems to realize he’s missing something and tries again. “I was thinking about asking her if she’d like to go to Hogsmeade with me. But you—and her—and well, you were…”

“We were never really anything,” Harry says quietly. If he thinks about it—and he really, truly tries not to think about it—kissing Ginny was a bit like kissing a noodle, and he didn’t think Cho was any better. He’s wondered, sometimes, if his _needs_ were broken by the war. He can’t imagine being with a girl, not like that, and it’s why they’d broken up. He loved her, but not the way she wanted him to. “You should ask her to Hogsmeade. You two spent a lot of time together last year, and she always speaks highly of you.”

Neville’s grin flashes shy and bright. “She does? That’s brilliant. But I mean, I wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt you, mate.”

“You aren’t,” Harry assures him. “It’s over and done.”

“Who are you going to ask to Hogsmeade?” Neville asks the question as if it’s a forgone conclusion that Harry has to ask _someone_ , and he honestly doesn’t know the answer.

“I think I’ll just go on my own,” he admits. “Everyone falls all over themselves now, and I don’t like being fawned over. It’s cloying and uncomfortable. Or maybe I’ll just stay in and finish up my work. Potions is harder than I thought it would be. I might have forgotten everything I needed during the war.”

“You’ll get it.” Neville grips Harry’s shoulder with one quick rough squeeze. “And thanks.”

“No problem, Neville.”

Harry watches him go, but he doesn’t have any more urge to go downstairs just now. It seems like everyone’s pairing up. Hermione and Ron, Neville and Ginny. He wonders sometimes about Seamus and Dean, particularly in the aftermath of the war. And of course, there are Nott and Malfoy.

On the other hand, he can’t just hide in the loo. And his Potions assignment won’t get done its own.

Wait, that’s it.

Harry knows _exactly_ how to solve this. All he needs to do is talk to Malfoy and set up a time for Saturday to work on their assignment. They’ll finish it off, get top marks, and avoid Hogsmeade all at once. It is a perfectly brilliant plan.

And if Malfoy’s up to something, Harry will be right there to stop him.

#

When Harry walks into the Potions classroom, Malfoy has his elbows on the bench, head down and his hair falling around his face. Malfoy leans forward, tracing his finger along the words in the book, a frown creasing his brow.

“Is hair an ingredient?” Harry asks, trying for teasing and not ready for the scowl he gets in return.

Malfoy tucks the wayward strands behind his ear, glowering. “ _Some_ of us had _plans_ , Potter. But you’re right, this assignment is important. Far more important than the fact that I _might_ have wanted to spend time with my friends.”

“And Nott.”

Malfoy purses his lips. “And Theo, yes.” He reaches up, tugging his hair back quickly into a ponytail, and tying it at the base of his head. “Let’s get this over and done, Potter. The sooner we’ve completed the assignment, the sooner I can join them in Hogsmeade and you can go back into your room and hide without dragging me into it.”

“I’m not hiding.” Harry reaches for the book, scanning the list of ingredients. “We need this extra credit assignment to bring our marks up. If you hadn’t distracted me that day with the kneazle hair—”

“ _I_ distracted _you_?” Malfoy huffs indignantly “It was no such thing. You were the one who did _whatever_ you did, and delayed the adding of the ingredients. And _you_ stirred too fast, and the potion simply didn’t work.”

“You touched my hand,” Harry protested, because that was what started it. That one simple touch, lighting him up like a spark from the inside out. “You _touched_ me, like this.” He reaches out, fingers closing over Malfoy’s hand in illustration of the simple touch.

It happens again.

Harry clenches his hand at the feel of it, like something fire-hot has been shoved into his palm, spreading over every bit of skin where he touches Malfoy. The other boy jerks back, stumbling as he goes, knocking the cauldron off to land with a thunk and roll a few feet away.

“ _Don’t touch me_ ,” Malfoy snarls. “Don’t you _ever_ touch me again, Potter, or I will report you to McGonagall and you will be gone from this place so quickly that you won’t know what happened.”

Harry just stands there, his hand dangling in mid-air, still tingling from the contact. “I don’t know what happened,” he says softly. “I didn’t _do_ anything, Malfoy. I swear, I didn’t do anything on purpose. It’s just—”

Malfoy crosses his arms, pulls in a breath that shudders out again. “So you’re trying to say that whenever you touch my skin—however you touch me—it burns _naturally_?” One eyebrow quirks. “You’re mad, Potter. There’s nothing that does that.”

“Test me.” Harry spreads both his hands and waits.

Malfoy circles around the table and Harry forces himself to stand still and watch, twisting slightly in place once Malfoy is behind him. He feels the tug of his collar before his shirt and jumper are tugged to one side, and a fingertip slides along the line of his neck.

It sparks down his spine, sending twisting heat all along his body in a swift rush that leaves him breathless and aching. He’s unexpectedly hard in his trousers, and his arse feels… it feels _odd_ in ways he can’t possibly explain.

Warm breath slides over his skin as Malfoy leans in close, still only touching him at that single point, fingertip tracing circles on his skin. “You stink, Potter,” Malfoy murmurs. He sucks in breath, lets it out again slowly. “This close, all I can smell is you. It’s sodding strong, and it’s…”

Lips brush against skin and Harry shudders under the touch. He leans forward, fingers curling over the edge of the bench, head bowed. “Malfoy…”

“What have you done to me?” Malfoy whispers. “What have you _done_?”

Nothing. Harry hasn’t done _anything_ , but he’s desperate for _something_. He pushes back against Malfoy, gratified to feel him pressing closer, the ridge of a hard cock against Harry’s bum. “ _Fuck me_ ,” he whispers in return, slightly horrified to hear the way his words fill with a needy whine, but he can’t take them back. He can’t take any of it back when he feels Malfoy tug his shirt loose from his trousers, when he feels fingers sliding over his skin in a fresh shower of sparks.

He just whines and pushes back, wiggling against Malfoy in ways that feel so strange and so good.

“Is that why you’ve been so upset?” Malfoy kisses the words into Harry’s skin, nips them into being and sucks little marks to act as punctuation. He tugs and Harry’s jumper and shirt are gone, and somehow Malfoy’s chest is bare as well and they are pressed skin to skin, all hot touch and live wires. “You’ve been thinking about my prick, Potter? Jealous that Theo’s been the one getting it shoved up his arse when you just wanted it all along?”

No.

Yes.

 _Fuck_.

“Just do it.” The words come out as a strangled moan, and Harry shoves his trousers and pants down in one motion, baring his arse. He has no idea how this works, he has never even thought about it before, but that _image_ , that _idea_ that Malfoy stood over Nott like this, shoved his prick up his arse and worked him over until he… oh _fuck_. “What are you fucking waiting for, Malfoy? You don’t _want_ my arse? It’s not good enough for you? Not _pure_ enough?” Harry wiggles it, not sure where the words are coming from, but unable to stop himself. “Are you _scared_?”

“Fuck you, Potter.” A button flies off when Malfoy undoes his own trousers, shoves them down just enough. Long fingers spread across the globes of Harry’s arse, pushing him open, exposing his hole. “Fuck.” Malfoy exhales. “You’re fucking _wet_ like a girl, Potter. This is going to go in so fucking easy. Did you fuck yourself before you came here? Were you thinking about me when you did it? Fuck, I bet you were lying in your bed, two fingers up your arse, slick and hot and screaming my name.”

The head of his cock feels huge, and Harry almost cries out with the pain of it pushing against his rim. He’s not ready for this, but at the same time, he’s desperate for it. Hungry in ways he’s never been before. “ _Do it_ ,” he orders, words spilling out, rushing over themselves in a waterfall of need. “Put your fucking fat cock in me, Malfoy. Fuck me until I can’t stand up anymore.” He doesn’t think about how Malfoy’s _wrong_ , because he wasn’t fucking himself before this. He’s never even touched himself there, never put his fingers inside his arse. But now he can’t think of anything other than how much he _needs_ Malfoy to fuck him, here and now.

It’s never felt like this before. _Never_.

“Please,” he begs, and Malfoy holds him still with one hand pressed against his stomach, the other at his back, guiding his prick in. He opens slowly, far more easily than he thinks he should, and Malfoy slips into place like he’s meant to be there. “Oh God,” Harry whispers. “Fuck. Don’t stop, please don’t stop. Do it hard, do it fast, I feel like I’m going to explode.”

Hands smooth along his side, anchoring at his hip bones. Malfoy twitches, pulling out just a little, then shoving it in deeper. “You are so fucking wet and tight, Potter. It’s like you were fucking made to fit my cock.” He moves again, and Harry whines; he hears the soft gloating sound of Malfoy’s chuckle. “Like that, do you? You look so good like this, my cock filling up the Saviour’s arse. Oh fuck.”

There is nothing then, nothing but the slap of skin on skin as Malfoy starts to fuck him in earnest. Harry leans on the table, pushing back, one hand dropping to fist his own cock. It’s almost too easy, stripping himself from root to tip, rolling over the head, hand slippery with droplets of fluid. He groans, then cries out as Malfoy goes deep, clenches around him and tries to hold on. He feels Malfoy stutter behind him, almost stopping before he thrusts even harder, and Harry matches him stroke for stroke.

He rolls into his orgasm without warning, screaming Malfoy’s name when he comes in thick ropes, painting the floor and edges of the bench. Malfoy shoves into him, driving deep before he stops and groans, and Harry feels the thick, slick heat of him spilling in his arse.

They breathe in concert, slow shuddering breaths as they return to coherence.

The light touch of Malfoy’s fingers is electric across the small of Harry’s back, little pinpoints of energy that send pleasurable shocks through him.

“This never happened,” Malfoy murmurs.

Of course it didn’t. It couldn’t. It’s impossible that Malfoy fucked Harry because… because… Harry whimpers because there are _so many_ reasons why this could not possibly have happened. He nods slowly. “I think I’ll request a new partner on Monday,” he says and feels Malfoy go stiff behind him.

Malfoy withdraws, and by the time Harry turns, Malfoy has managed to pull up his clothes and tuck himself neatly away. Malfoy arches one pale eyebrow, lips pursed into a thin scowl. “You do that,” he says sharply. “You’re quite right. I think it would be best if we have no further reasons to work together. On anything.”

He turns on his heel and is gone, leaving Harry with the potions materials still spread across the bench. With his pants around his ankles, and something dripping down the insides of his thighs.

Harry doesn’t know what to do, so he simply sinks to the ground and closes his eyes, praying that when he opens them again, none of this will be real.


	2. CHAPTER TWO

A month after the _incident_ with Malfoy, Harry’s beard is finally thick enough to deserve the title, his Potions marks are terrible, and he isn’t eating. He sits at the breakfast table, picking at toast rather than eating it, and staring off into space.

He is _not_ staring at Malfoy.

Although any time he glances in that direction, Harry swears that Nott is staring right back at him.

“Oi, mate, what’d you do to Nott? He’s glaring daggers.”

“Ronald.” Hermione shifts, and Ron jumps like he’s been kicked under the table. “Can’t you see that Harry’s feeling under the weather?”

“A bit of pumpkin juice will put your stomach to rights.” Ron reaches past him, pours a large glass and places it in front of Harry. “Have some tea, too. Heals all ills, you know.”

The tea smells of bitter and lemon, with a twist of too sweet, and the pumpkin juice just plain makes him more nauseated than before. Harry pushes both glasses away roughly, not caring that the juice slops over the edge of the glass. “No thanks. I’m just not hungry.”

“You’re white as a sheet, and you’ve been ill for days.” Hermione sets a hand over his, her fingers gentle. It’s funny how it reminds him of Malfoy, how he expects to feel sparks of energy singing against his skin and is surprised when nothing happens. When he looks up, her expression is fond and worried. “Maybe you ought to go to the infirmary.”

“I’m fine.” He pushes his chair back, ignoring the surprised looks he gets from the others in Gryffindor. He smiles, trying to make it look real. “I’m _fine_.”

He’s not fine. He’s not fine _at all_.

He’s been dreaming for a month now, waking up every morning immersed in the memory of what happened, and sometimes fresh from dreams of _other_ things that could happen, things he never considered before. He can feel when Malfoy is looking at him, the weight of his gaze almost as strong as the touch of his fingertips.

And the worst of it is, he wants it to happen again. He wants to feel the way his body sings beneath that touch, hear Malfoy’s ridiculously filthy words.

He has never felt like this before, and he can’t understand why he feels like it _now_.

“I’m going to go get some work in before Potions,” he mutters. “I need to do something to pull my marks up.”

No one stops him when he leaves, and no one follows him to the Potions classroom. He doesn’t know why he expects anything else.

He swears, when he walks in, that he can smell Malfoy here. That if he stands by the bench they shared—neither of them uses it anymore—he can find the scent of what it was like for them to be together. He touches the surface of the bench, then lifts his hand and inhales, impossible traces carried on his skin. His body aches with remembrance, and he shifts at the uncomfortable feeling that his arse might be going slick.

Something is wrong with his body, and he doesn’t understand. It’s all Malfoy’s fault, and this isn’t even something he can explain to his friends. They won’t believe him, and it’s too embarrassing to put into words.

He looks up when he hears footsteps, taking two quick steps back from this particular workbench. Malfoy skewers him with a _look_. “Your bench is over _there_ ,” he points out. “With Longbottom.”

“It’s not as if this is your bench either,” Harry retorts, if only to see the way Malfoy’s nostrils flare, his gaze narrowing.

Malfoy steps forward into Harry’s space, mouth open as if he’s about to say something else, when he simply… stops. He inhales, leaning in towards Harry, nose pressed into the space behind his ear, then he noses at Harry’s throat beneath his beard.

“Malfoy?” Harry’s voice softly shudders.

“You smell different.” Malfoy’s pupils are blown wide and he moves, shifting his stance as if he’s suddenly uncomfortable. Harry recognizes that dance—the way you move when you’re aroused and nothing quite fits in your pants anymore. His gaze drops, and Malfoy takes a step back, robes concealing any possible reaction.

“Don’t smell me,” Harry orders, and Malfoy snorts.

“It doesn’t matter if you douse yourself in _Amortentia_ ,” he says dryly. “You still stink like a Gryffindor, and I want nothing to do with you.”

He brushes past Harry and their fingers touch on the way; Harry feels the shock straight to his core, his stomach turning over even while his body shivers. Malfoy stumbles, almost stops, then stalks onward to his own bench.

Harry just stands there as people begin to come into the classroom, moving around him until Neville nudges him into place at their bench.

Whatever happened before is still happening. He still feels it. Malfoy still feels it. 

What did Malfoy _do_ to him?

#

Hermione finds him in the library, in a back corner trying to research spells that feel like electricity or sparks. There’s nothing he can find, not when his mind makes a Muggle reference of the sensation and the books are all purely magical. She sits down at the table and picks up a book. “ _Sixty-One Unusual Hexes For Love and Play?_ ” She sets it down again, closing it so that Harry loses his place. “Where did you even find that in this library?”

“It’s not pornographic,” he mutters. “And nothing in it is illegal. I think that’s my problem; I need to be looking in the restricted section, and that means coming back tonight with the cloak.”

“Looking for _what_?” She touches his hand again and Harry looks down, frowning, trying to understand how one person’s touch can feel so different from another. “Harry, please talk to me. We’re all worried.”

“All?” He tilts his head, not sure what she means.

“Me. Ron.” She pats the top of his hand. “Neville, Luna, Ginny. You’ve been off for a while now, and even though you’re still staring at Malfoy, you haven’t been investigating. And now you’re not eating, and you’ve started researching spells. This isn’t like you.”

He flashes a small, weak smile at her. “No, I usually leave the research to you,” he teases, and he’s pleased when she smiles at that. Perhaps he can nudge her off track.

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” she says, taking another book and opening it up. “But first you’ll have to tell me what I’m looking for, and why, and what it has to do with Malfoy.”

Or perhaps Hermione, being Hermione, will manage to cling to the rails and stay on track no matter what.

Harry sighs. “Malfoy’s done something to me.”

“And what’s that?” She tilts her head, and Harry doesn’t know where to begin because she has _no idea_.

He lets it all spill out—the charged touch, the way Malfoy smells, the unexpected sex that actually felt _good_. It comes out in a tangled mess of words, going back and forth through time until he thinks he’s managed to lay it all on the table between them, as messy as it is, leaving out only the odd physical details of how his body does strange things for Malfoy. He pushes his hands through his hair, shaking his head. “And the worst of it is, Hermione, _I’m not gay_. I’ve never been—”

“Harry.” She stops him with a finger on his lips. “Are you sure?”

“I dated Cho and Ginny, didn’t I?”

“You also said Cho’s kisses were _wet_ and that kissing Ginny was rather like kissing a bowl of jelly.” Hermione’s lips turn up, amused. “I have it on rather good authority that kissing Ginny is more like fireworks, at least according to Neville, who wandered about in a complete daze after that day in Hogsmeade. I have to wonder, therefore, if the kisses didn’t work because _you_ weren’t interested. And you never went beyond kisses, either.”

It has a kind of logic to it, although Harry doesn’t want to look too closely. “It doesn’t mean I’m gay.”

“You’ve always been more than a bit obsessed with Malfoy,” Hermione says gently. “And he’s been very interested in you as well.”

“It’s not like that.” Harry can feel the heat on his face, the way his cheeks burn.

“I think it is like that.” She pauses, only for a moment. “Harry, you had _sex_. And you liked it. You weren’t the only one wondering if the war had broken you somehow. Ginny was worried about you because you were never truly interested in her. She’s more worried now that you’re ill. If I tell her that you’re pining—”

“I am _not_ pining.” His voice rises and he hears the shush from the front desk. He sits down quickly, wondering exactly when he’d stood. “I’m not pining,” he repeats in a hissed whisper. “It was one time, and all right, it was good. It was maybe even better than good, but it was a horrible mistake and I’m obviously feeling the repercussions a month later if I’m this miserable.”

Hermione frowns. “You think you’re ill because you had sex that you claim you didn’t want with Malfoy?”

“I’m sick to my stomach,” he mutters. “I look at him, and it’s like everything twists inside. He smells good and pumpkin juice smells bad. He did something to me. What other explanation is there?”

“I don’t think Malfoy did anything to you.” Her tone is gentle. “Harry, you’ve _always_ been more than interested in him. This year isn’t any different. You were staring at him before the day you felt sparks.”

“Then what is it?” Because it has to be _something_. This isn’t natural, this strange feeling. He can’t tell her the gory details, the way his body goes slick when Malfoy’s around, or the way everything just seemed to slot together so perfectly. All he can do is say, “Something he did changed me.”

Her smile tilts wider. “Harry, maybe you ought to try to make peace with Malfoy. If you’ve changed, maybe it’s just because you’re starting to see that he’s as damaged by the war as you were. And maybe you’ve got some common ground. He stares as much as you do. He’s not unaffected, and perhaps this is the right time for the two of you to figure it out.”

Malfoy’s gotten to her too.

It’s the only thing that makes sense in Harry’s mind, because why else would Hermione be so _positive_ and _helpful_ where Malfoy is concerned. He shakes his head, stands quickly. “I’ll figure it out myself, don’t worry,” he says. Because he has to, before Malfoy somehow manages to get inside the heads of all his friends.

#

For Hogsmeade weekend, Harry waits until Neville heads off with the rest of their friends before he makes his way to the Potions classroom. He just needs a little time working on this latest assignment to make sure he understands it, and he doesn’t need Neville hovering worriedly nearby while he works on it. He brings two rolls and a glass of milk with him; after three days of experimentation, he finally figured out that milk is the only thing he cares to drink beside water, and he’s been drinking as much as he can.

He lives on bread, milk, and cheese these days, but at least he’s eating _something_.

He pushes open the door with one shoulder, trying to drink while walking, then stops dead when he realizes he’s not alone. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Hogsmeade with Nott?”

“Why would I be?” Malfoy’s tone is dry, his shoulders hunched as he meticulously chops something on his workbench. “In case you haven’t realized, Nott and I are no longer _Nott and I_. We’ve broken it off. Some weeks ago, if you must know.”

“I didn’t realize.”

Malfoy looks up, raises both eyebrows. “Strange that you wouldn’t, given the amount of time you spend staring at our table. Or has something else caught your interest? Pansy, perhaps?”

“What is it with people assuming I fancy Parkinson?” Harry tosses the two rolls on his own workbench and drains his glass dry before he sets that down as well. “I’m not any more interested in her than I am in Ginny or Cho. Less, honestly, considering she tried to hand me over to Voldemort at the end of the war.”

“Don’t hold that against her; he had her brother in his army and all she wanted to do was stop the war before she lost another person.” Malfoy sets the knife down. “She had a choice of you or her family.”

“I don’t actually blame her,” Harry says quietly. “I know what she was going through—I spent time researching all of you during the summer, helping the Ministry figure out which children were safe and which were not.”

“So I’ve got you to thank for my entrance into Hogwarts.” Malfoy turns away, his back stiff. “Thank you, I suppose.”

“You’ve your own actions to thank,” Harry tells him. “You saved my life.”

“And you saved mine, so we’re even.” Malfoy picks up the knife again, slicing through a root with a solid thunk against the bench. It sounds like a period on the end of his sentence, and it’s not as if Harry actually _wants_ to talk to him, so he turns his back as well.

He manages to work in silence for a few minutes before the weight of knowing that Malfoy is there behind him. It’s as if he can feel his heat, his body reacting to the proximity. He shifts on the seat, trying to find a way to be comfortable and failing miserably as his jeans grow tight.

“So.” Harry grits his teeth, tries to think of anything other than what happened here the last time they were alone. “What happened with Nott?”

“Do you care?” Malfoy snaps. The sound of the knife stops for a moment, a sigh punches the air. “It simply wasn’t working. Nott wanted far more attention than I was willing to give. He’s needy, and I wasn’t interested in doting on him.”

“Do you ever think about—” Harry cuts himself off, busies himself pulling out his Potions textbook and finding the place where he’d left off on his essay. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want the answer.

“No.” The word is soft and low. “Potter…”

“I don’t either,” Harry lies, because it’s what needs to be said. They are both lying, Harry is sure of it, but he can’t stop. In the silence that follows, he pages through his textbook, finds the section that he needs and starts writing. The scratch of his quill is joined by the sound of sure knife strokes while Malfoy works on his potion. He doesn’t look, but he can hear the motions, sense them as sure as if he _were_ watching.

“You haven’t looked well lately,” Malfoy says quietly. There’s a scrape, and Harry imagines him placing something in the cauldron, then the whisper of the spell to set the spoon stirring just so.

He can’t tell the truth, so he simply lifts one shoulder and lets it fall. “I’ve felt out of sorts,” he admits, and leaves it at that.

A chair scrapes, and by the time Harry looks up, Malfoy is standing within his personal space, one hand falling to touch Harry at the nape of the neck. He closes his eyes, falls into that electric touch with an unwilling sigh.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Malfoy says. His voice is tight, as if the words cost him dearly. “I saved your life, and you saved mine. We were even, until I did this to you.”

Harry wants to leap up, rejoice because Malfoy is admitting that he did _something_. “Tell me what you did, then we can make it _stop_ ,” he insists. He twists in his seat, looks up to meet his gaze. “If you tell me what spell you cast, Hermione can find an answer and this will end.”

Fingertips drift over his skin in tiny dots of pleasure. They go straight to his groin, his prick thick and heavy and pressed against the fabric in a hard ridge. Harry licks his lips, prays Malfoy doesn’t look down.

Malfoy shakes his head. “I meant fucking you, idiot. I meant the part where I bent you over and took your arse and now you’re acting like I… like you weren’t there too. I didn’t do _anything_ other than that.”

“I was there.” Harry blinks quickly, not sure where this conversation went. He thought he had it under control, but it’s twisting into places he didn’t expect. “I was there, and it was good, and I don’t… I don’t think about it. Not anymore.” It’s a lie, the force of it bringing fresh heat to his skin, warmed from the tips of ears down the nape of his neck, fire under Malfoy’s touch.

“Then what’s _wrong_? What do you think I did?”

“This.” Harry grabs his wrist, wraps fingers around it and watches Malfoy’s eyes go wide. “What did you do to make it feel like that when we touch? What did you do so that when I get near you, I _smell_ you, and I… my body…” He flushes deeply, not wanting to talk about how wet and loose he feels right now. How _ready_ he feels, and how desperately needy he is, wanting to be fucked all over again.

“I didn’t do this.” Malfoy jerks his hand away. “It must have been you.”

Harry’s laugh is dark and bitter. “Do you think I would have done this?”

Malfoy stares at him and Harry glares right back. When Malfoy shakes his head, reaches out, Harry tries to get away but he’s too slow and Malfoy grips his head, leans in, brushes a kiss that is almost too gentle for the fire it lights before he steps back. “We’re not doing it again,” Malfoy says tightly. “Whatever it is, it’s not my fault, and we are _not_ going to do it ever again. I do not fuck people who hate me.”

There is something in the way he says it that makes Harry pause, trying to tease meaning from the words. By the time he manages to put it away in his mind, save it for later, Malfoy is gone and Harry is left alone with his assignment and a still bubbling potion on Malfoy’s bench.

Harry opens his mouth, closes it again. He speaks to the bench as if Malfoy were still there.

“I don’t hate you.”

#

“I’ve brought you something, Harry.” Luna nudges her way onto the sofa in the eighth year common room as if she belongs there, settling comfortably between Harry and the side of the couch where there hadn’t been much room before. She sets a book on his lap, a thin volume, old and musty as if it’s been in an attic for decades. “I think you ought to read it. You’ll find it quite fascinating.”

“Thank you?” His response lilts up as a question because gifts from Luna are often odd and rarely something he’s gone looking for, but at the same time, they are often far more useful than they appear on the surface.

She leans in to kiss his cheek lightly. “We do all love you, Harry, and anything that makes you happy will make us happy. Even that ridiculous beard of yours.” She pats his cheek gently. “You don’t need it, you know. You have nothing to hide.”

“Have you been talking to Hermione?” Because he thinks she must have done, to be talking to him this way. But Luna simply shakes her head, her smile gentle and her expression as fey as it ever is.

“I just pay attention,” she says. “And of course, there are the Grotchlers.” She brushes at the space next to his temple, not quite touching him. “They’ll fade, eventually, when you glow less.”

“Glow?”

Her smile grows wider. “Of course you are glowing, Harry. How could you be doing anything else?” She presses his hand against the book, whispers that she hopes he enjoys it before she stands and leaves him alone.

No one else in the common room pays attention to her coming or going. No one seems to look at him, to notice the oddness of the conversation. Still, there is something about it that has Harry leaving the room and taking the book with him, retreating to the room he shares with the same roommates from all his years in Hogwarts. It isn’t the same _room_ that they had in Gryffindor, but their things leave him with a sense of familiarity, of returning to a normalcy that he doesn’t really feel after the war.

It’s as if he should simply forget everything that’s happened since he first became a student at Hogwarts, and that isn’t really possible.

He climbs into bed and draws the curtains, brushing at the air by his ear; ever since Luna mentioned it, it’s as if he feels ghostly wings tickling his cheek. It’s irritating.

Harry opens the book to find that it’s a children’s tale, the illustrations fanciful and the wording sparse. It doesn’t take him long to read through it, then to read it again and again, trying to decide exactly _why_ she gave this to him. It’s a fairy tale, after all, maybe a cautionary story for two boys in love.

He can tell the story is ancient, one of lovers of old. Two princes from kingdoms at war who met on the battlefield. They traded life debts, and in the end, when one had to win, he forgave the other for trespasses made in the name of war. As they negotiated peace and touched hands in friendship for the first time, lightning struck. They made their alliance in love and marriage, and in the end were blessed with a sense of power in their touch, and with children of their own.

Harry touches the picture of one prince, his belly round with child. It’s impossible, isn’t it? Men don’t have children.

Nor do people feel lightning when their fingers brush. Or have their bodies prepare in impossible ways for the other, despite their gender. But this story and these fairy tale princes… it’s coded in words that children wouldn’t understand, but Harry sees it there, sees the way the magic creates something for them.

It’s only a fairy tale.

Except that Harry knows that it’s happened to him.


	3. CHAPTER THREE

“It’s a very rare occurrence in the wizarding world,” Hermione says somberly. “If Luna hadn’t given you this book…” Her words trail off, and Luna smiles placidly, leaning against Neville’s shoulder, her feet drawn up and arms looped around her knees. Ginny doesn’t seem fussed by another girl leaning against her boyfriend, so Harry can’t be bothered by it either. They look comfortable.

Whereas _he_ feels anything but comfortable.

“What, exactly, is _it_?” he asks, voice tight. “Hermione, what have you found out? Because that was a fairy tale.” And he knows she’s found _something_ concrete because they are all here: Hermione and Ron, Ginny and Neville, and of course, Luna who started this all. They are all here to gawk and support and help him figure out what to do. At least he hopes they can figure out what to do.

“Soulmates.” She lays down a book that is so ancient that Harry can smell the old and damp rising off of it. He leans back away from it, breathing shallow breaths through his mouth because the scent turns his stomach. He can barely see the pages she points to from this angle, but she’ll talk him through it, he trusts her for that.

“Apparently it is possible for two wizards to be magically linked so intrinsically that their fates are entwined. It manifests through strong emotion—either love or hate. If you’d been straight and of opposite genders, no one would have noticed.” She shrugs one shoulder. “After all, if two people gravitate to each other young, and grow up to marry their first sweetheart, no one comments, right?”

Harry nods slowly, because when she puts it that way, he wonders if Hermione and Ron are soulmates as well. They’ve certainly managed both sides of strong emotion. “Does it involve arguing?”

Ron’s ears flush almost as red as his hair. “Sure does, mate. Which explains everything about you and Malfoy, doesn’t it?”

There it is, the name said bluntly. Harry pulls back, waiting for recrimination because it’s _Malfoy_. He was on the wrong side during the war. He hurt them all, at one point or another. Harry deserves for them to be angry at him for this, for somehow linking his fate to _Malfoy_.

He licks his lips. Waits.

Nothing happens.

Hermione shrugs and Ron offers a rueful smile. “It’s not as if you haven’t been obsessed with him since you were eleven,” Ron finally says.

“He’s right about that,” Ginny echoes. “If we’d known then what we know now, it would’ve been obvious.”

Harry is still waiting for hate. For anger. For someone to say _something_ about how he’s entangled with someone like _Malfoy_.

Luna leans forward, her fingers light against the back of his hand. “We’ve forgiven him, Harry. And so did you. You just need to give yourself time to accept it. What you have here is a gift. You are a part of history, a thing of legend.”

“I’ve already had enough legend in my life,” Harry mutters. “The papers are going to have a field day with this news.”

“I’d say don’t tell them, but it’s going to become obvious.” Hermione’s gaze drops to his abdomen, and Harry touches it, wondering what it is going to be like. He can’t feel anything now other than his odd eating habits and exhaustion, but he knows it’s there.

“You need to talk to McGonagall,” Hermione says, matter-of-fact. “I’ve set up an appointment for you, Harry. You’re to see her immediately after dinner tonight, and no, I didn’t tell her what it’s regarding, although anyone with eyes can see you’ve been out of sorts these last few weeks. I’ve also prepared several inches worth of information for you to bring with you, detailing sources and information that she might require while making an informed decision about your situation.”

“Don’t you think Harry ought to be the one making decisions about his situation?” Neville asks, and Harry flashes him a smile. Neville’s been quiet since the war, but when he speaks it is with quiet confidence. He’s no longer merely a follower. If any of them came out of the war better than they went in, it’s Neville.

Of course, Neville isn’t completely correct, either. There is one other person who ought to be involved.

Harry pushes himself to his feet, wavers slightly in the face of the realization he’s just had.

“I need to go find Malfoy, first,” he says. He holds his hands up when they rise to follow him, points at the seats and waits until they sit. “I appreciate your help, but this is something I’ve got to do on my own. Whatever this is between us, he needs to understand it as well. And he ought to be there when I talk to the Headmistress. He’s involved.”

“In that case.” Hermione touches her wand to the scroll on the table and it shimmers before becoming two scrolls. “Have two copies of the condensed information: one for Malfoy and one for McGonagall. Do try not to get yourself hexed, Harry.”

He quirks a smile and agrees.

Truth be told, he’s far more concerned that telling Malfoy might result in more sex somehow. And he’s not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.

#

“I don’t hate you.” They don’t have to be the first words that Harry says to Malfoy in days, but it feels right. He finds him in an alcove in the library and he pulls up a chair, squeezing into the tight space just close enough that their knees almost touch. When Malfoy glares at him, Harry tries to smile. “You said you didn’t want to shag someone who hates you, and I just thought you ought to know, I don’t hate you.”

“Lovely,” Malfoy says dryly. “And now that I know that, perhaps you might leave me alone to finish my revisions for Arithmancy? I expect tomorrow’s exam to be nearly impossible.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t.” Harry sets the neatly rolled up scroll on the table between them, nudges it towards Malfoy. “This is research that Hermione’s done, looking into why I’ve been feeling so out of sorts.”

Malfoy interrupts before Harry can manage to blurt any more out. “I thought that was because you’d had a horrible, unexpected experience.”

“It was unexpected, but it wasn’t horrible. But this was a direct result of that particular experience, yes.” Sitting next to Malfoy isn’t as easy as sitting there with his friends. They had all watched with supportive expressions, while Malfoy merely raises one eyebrow, lips pressed into a thin line as he waits for Harry to continue. He sighs and tries to find the words. “You’ll want to read that scroll, and you might want to join me in meeting with McGonagall, as it appears we’ve done something quite unique in the wizarding world. Or perhaps we simply _are_ something unique. Together.”

“Together.” The one word falls flat and dark.

Harry tries to school his expression into a smile, but he’s fairly certain that he fails. “Yes, Malfoy, together. You’re right, I’ve been out of sorts since we…” His voice trails off, wary of saying the word in public, even in a secluded corner of the library.

“Since we _fucked_ , Potter?” Malfoy smirks. “Surely you can put a term to the event. You even claimed that it was good, if I recall.”

“Stop.” Harry acts without thinking, covers Malfoy’s mouth with his hand only to see his gaze darken abruptly.

Malfoy wraps long fingers around Harry’s wrist, pulls his hand away so he can hiss, “Are you embarrassed, Potter? Don’t want your friends to know you like wizards as well as witches?”

“Better,” Harry retorts quietly. “And I’m just not ready yet, all right? My friends already know. They’re the ones who’ve been helping me figure this out, because I’m lost here. And this isn’t just any two wizards _fucking_.” He puts emphasis on the word, low and soft, letting it fall like a curse. “We’re bloody soulmates, Malfoy. You thought I’d been getting off on my own beforehand, and I hadn’t. That was magic doing something to my body because of _you_. And worse yet, there’s something soulmates can do that normal wizards can’t.”

Malfoy sits back like he’s trying to put space between them. “Why do I think I’m not going to like what you’re about to say?”

Harry shakes his head. “Because you’re not. Because if I’m right, then I’m likely pregnant, and I need to go to Madame Pomfrey to find out, or I’m just going to get sicker. This isn’t something I can fix on my own. It’s too rare, and there isn’t just some potion to take. It’s happening. The question is whether it’s happening to you as well, or whether I’m on my own.”

Malfoy says nothing, simply blinks quietly. Harry tries to read something into his expression, but there’s nothing there. Shock, perhaps. Neither disgust nor acceptance, nothing that Harry can use to calm the nerves that twist his gut into knots. He sucks in a slow breath, tries to quiet his breathing, but as the silence stretches on his hands begin to shake.

“Malfoy?” he asks softly.

“What do you want me to say?” Malfoy snaps. “Do you want me to welcome this brat of yours with open arms? Do you want me to say _oh yes, Potter, I’ve been in love with you since I was eleven_ and then we’ll sail off into our happily ever after? For Merlin’s sake, you won’t even admit you’re _gay_. If you can’t say the word, how the bloody hell do you think you’re going to walk into the Great Hall and admit that you went arse up for a former Death Eater? Go do whatever the hell you’re going to do and leave me out of it.”

It sounds, at first, as if Malfoy is rejecting Harry. As if he’s leaving him to hang, to get through this alone. But Harry looks at the words carefully and realizes that just like Malfoy doesn’t want to fuck someone who hates him, this has two meanings as well. Harry sits quietly, trying to compose his response because he knows he needs to get this right.

“If this really is what I think it is,” he says softly. “Then you and I have a chance at something that’s something like a miracle. You, me, this thing growing inside of me. And I’m willing to take a chance on that and walk into the Great Hall with you. The real question is whether you’re willing to let me do that, or if you’re going to let me walk away with your child and do this on my own. I’m not rejecting you, Malfoy. We’ve already been too entwined, ever since we were eleven. Love and hate are two sides of the same coin, and obviously the sex is good. No, I’m not saying I’m gay, not yet. I don’t know what I am but I know that I want to figure it out with you.”

Harry pushes back, leaving the scroll on the table. “That’s all of Hermione’s research on the subject. We wouldn’t have even found it if it weren’t for a fairy tale story that Luna gave me. And now… now I’ve got a meeting with McGonagall after dinner, and if you want to be there, you can. Otherwise I’ll figure this out on my own.”

He shouldn’t—he knows he shouldn’t—touch Malfoy, but he does it anyway. Just a gentle slide of fingers against his cheek, feeling the spark that leaps between them. It coils inside of him, makes his arse feel wet and loose and ready, and he sees the way Malfoy’s gaze drops to his crotch. 

Harry doesn’t try to push it any more than that.

“I don’t hate you,” he says one more time, then he leaves Malfoy there to make his own decisions. It’s not something Harry can do for him.

#

Harry slips out of dinner a few minutes early, after poking half-heartedly at the food on his plate, moving it around without eating much. He drinks the tea that the house elves bring, feels the way it settles the churning in his gut, but it’s no replacement for food. When treacle tart is brought out, he sighs and can’t stay any longer. It hurts to see his favorite there on the table, and be utterly unable to eat it.

He makes his way to the Headmistress’s office slowly, knowing that she is still down in the Great Hall so he’ll have to wait. When he arrives, he sinks to the floor, leaning his back against the wall and watching the gargoyle, who stares unblinkingly back at him. He closes his eyes and thinks about things that maybe he could try eating later, if he feels interested in it.

He hears footsteps and wonders if it’s McGonagall or if it is too soon. A swish of robes next to him, then the heat of a body that he recognizes without having to see him. “Hullo, Malfoy.”

“It isn’t fair to put something like that upon a person and expect an immediate answer,” Malfoy mutters.

“I didn’t have much time,” Harry admits. “We’ve only truly sorted it out this afternoon. But I have to say, I’d like to find a way to eat again. I’m hungry all the time, but most food smells terrible and tastes worse.”

“You ignored the treacle tart.”

Harry blinks his eyes open, twisting to look at Malfoy. “You were paying attention?”

“Don’t be daft. The entire school knows it’s your favorite; everyone notices when you don’t gobble it down like a barbarian,” Malfoy sneers.

But the whole school doesn’t know. Harry’s fairly certain most of the school doesn’t care what his favorite pudding is. On the hand, _Malfoy_ knows, and he’s paid enough mind to it that he realized that Harry wasn’t eating. It makes him warm on the inside, a different feeling than the electricity of their touch. He leans slightly, letting his weight lean into Malfoy. “You care.”

“Hardly. It’s simply that it’s my child, too, and if anything happens to you my parents will likely lose out on their only opportunity to ever have a grandchild of their own blood. I doubt I’ll take a wife.” Malfoy leans his head back, staring at the ceiling while he talks. “They’ve been trying to set a match with Astoria Greengrass. She’s not undesirable—I think you’d like her, actually. Quite the spitfire. Opinionated, strong-minded, and an occasional tendency to leap before looking. You’d think she’d be a Gryffindor, except that she’s also deliciously devious.” Malfoy sighs. “And yet, still a woman, and thus, entirely unappealing to my prick.”

“Mr. Malfoy, please do not discuss your sexual conquests while in my hall.” McGonagall’s voice rings out, and Harry wonders what wards she must have set up to have heard Malfoy’s quiet declarations. They both scramble to their feet, Malfoy brushing his robes neatly by the time she joins them and gives the password for the door. “Am I to assume that you will be joining Mr. Potter and I for this meeting, Mr. Malfoy?”

“I asked him to come, yes.” Harry doesn’t say yet that it involves Malfoy. He gives him this one last moment to claim that it’s nothing to do with him and to leave it behind.

Malfoy doesn’t take the opportunity to disappear, instead stepping past the gargoyle as soon as he moves and moving quickly up the stairs to the Headmistress’s office. She gestures and Harry follows.

They part, once in the room. Harry hands her the scroll from Hermione and asks that she read it first before they speak, then he moves to look at the decorations. There are some things he remembers from Dumbledore’s time, and a few things that he believes must have come from Snape. He wonders if every Headmaster leaves something of themselves behind when they are done at Hogwarts.

He doesn’t look to see what Malfoy is doing, but he is aware of exactly how far away he is at every moment, as if he can feel the heat of him across the room.

After several minutes, a chair scrapes and the other two chairs move as well, as if inviting Malfoy and Harry to sit. Harry looks over at Malfoy, waiting for the other boy to move before he takes one chair, watching as Malfoy settles into the other, sprawled politely.

“Am I to understand, by what I read in this document, that you two believe that you are soulmates, and that you have had sexual intercourse?” McGonagall asks.

Harry feels heat suffuse his skin. “I’ve read through what Hermione wrote in that and yes, every symptom they mention, I’ve experienced—at least on my side of the equation. It started with feeling like lightning when we touch. The shag wasn’t exactly planned.”

Malfoy folds his hands together. “I am prepared to offer whatever is required of the Malfoy estates in order to ensure that Potter has the proper care.”

“I do think that if you are intimately involved, you might begin to call one another by your given names,” McGonagall says dryly.

“No.” Malfoy raises one eyebrow, smirking lightly when he looks at Harry. “I am fairly certain our mode of address is far too established, not to mention a part of our courtship.”

“Very well. Then tell me what you plan to do.”

“Date.” Harry blurts it out without planning, doesn’t know quite what to do with the surprised rise of both of Malfoy’s eyebrows. “I mean, we haven’t been. We’ve been arguing with each other for years now. We need to try to get along, see what it’s like so we’ll know if we can do it. For the baby.”

“You do realize that means being seen together in public,” Malfoy says drily.

“I’m well aware.”

“You must understand that while you are both of age and able to make decisions for yourselves as adults, I will still need to let your parents know.” McGonagall nods her head. “In your case, Harry, that should be your aunt and uncle, and perhaps the Weasleys.”

“The Weasleys probably already know, since Ron and Ginny do,” Harry says ruefully. “If they don’t, they will anyway. And my aunt and uncle… won’t understand. They don’t like magic, remember? Is there any chance we can just not let them know?”

“You’ll need to tell them something eventually,” she says gently. “But yes, given the they are Muggles and this might well be difficult for them to assimilate, we shall let the Weasleys be your parental guidance in this instance. And Mr. Malfoy—”

“I’d prefer to notify them myself,” Malfoy says, voice tight. “I’d be happy to show you the letter before it is sent, should you need assurance that they are in possession of all salient facts, but I need to be the one to tell them. They are still laboring under the impression that I might yet marry Astoria Greengrass next summer.”

“I see.” McGonagall pulls a sheet of paper close and picks up a quill. She writes a quick note, folding it neatly before giving it to Harry. “Take this to Madame Pomfrey, along with Miss Granger’s notes. She will likely wish to keep you for overnight observation, and I have asked that she grant Mr. Malfoy permission to remain with you, should you both desire. Do not think that this will be an everyday occurrence; you both still have your own rooms, and you are expected to sleep in your own beds. You are still students, please remember.”

“I understand.” Harry gives his agreement quickly, Malfoy’s _as do I_ coming more slowly. When McGonagall stands, they both stand as well.

“Thank you both for trusting me with this,” she says quietly. “Too many students might have hidden their relationship and their condition, and in circumstances like this, it could be deadly. You must remain under close observation, Mr. Potter.” She pauses, her voice almost gentle as she says, “I wish you both well.”

They walk down the hall together, Harry’s feet feeling as if they are dragging through molasses, uncertain about returning to the 8th year dorms after the infirmary, and facing their friends.

“Most couples choose romance first, then marriage, then pregnancy,” Malfoy comments idly. “But of course, the Boy Wonder couldn’t possibly follow the normal patterns of behaviour.”

“I don’t know if I’d call this romance.” Harry feels as if he has to protest, because he doesn’t know _what_ this is yet. “I’m not in love with you, Malfoy.”

He doesn’t know how to interpret the look Malfoy gives him. “But you don’t hate me,” Malfoy says quietly.

When Harry nods, Malfoy smiles, like Harry’s done exactly the right thing.


	4. CHAPTER FOUR

The first few days after the discussion with McGonagall seem to be a constant repeat performance. Harry travels with Malfoy through the school: walking to classes, studying together in their common room or the library, sitting together at lunch in a space that is neither Gryffindor nor Slytherin. It gives them time to be seen, and for their changed relationship to be understood. At the same time, it gives them a chance to talk about inconsequential nothings, trying to find common ground in a relationship that has never been a friendship, but now ties them together by something more.

By the third day, the novelty begins to wear off and they are able to eat without feeling as if the eyes of the school are upon them, even if they still eat alone. Harry pushes at a piece of toast, trying to decide if his stomach will tolerate it, and Malfoy picks it up and holds it out towards him.

“Eat,” Malfoy says. “If you don’t, your body will begin to consume itself in order to gain nutrition.”

He doesn’t say _for the baby_ ; it’s an all too present constant in their lives. They haven’t explained that to the school at large yet. Harry figures they have time before he begins to _look_ pregnant, and even longer before anyone looks at him and thinks _pregnant_ rather than _fat_ , because it’s such a rare condition for a wizard. 

He takes the toast, holds it in two fingers. “I’m getting sick of toast,” he admits. “Milk. Toast. Sometimes pumpkin juice. This part of it has to be over soon or I’m going to start to look like a burnt loaf of bread.”

The corner of Malfoy’s mouth tilts up. “Go ahead, Potter, say that to the house elves in the kitchen. They’d be horrified that you implied their toast is burnt. Might iron their ears for _hours_ afterwards.”

“Don’t even joke about it.” Harry takes a cautious bite, then another as his stomach growls. When Malfoy hands him another and their fingers brush, he doesn’t flinch. The sting of electricity is almost commonplace now, and he wonders what it would be like to feel it anywhere else other than his hands.

A flush rises to the tip of his ears.

“And what are you thinking now?” Malfoy asks, reaching for the marmalade. “We’re quite alone here, so you can feel safe to say whatever’s on your mind, Potter. Regrets? Concerns?”

“Confusion,” he says quickly. “When you were with Nott, you were all over him. The two of you touched all the time, and you snogged in the hallway and at meals. I half expected to find you shagging in a classroom.”

“No, that was us,” Malfoy says mildly. “However, Nott did blow me in an alcove once. He has a strong imperturbable charm. Can you imagine the rush from knowing that your classmates are walking by while you’re busy shoving your prick into a willing mouth? I think I came from the thought alone, and he went to class with stains on his robes.”

Harry blinks. “Um.” The image leaves him hard and aching and wet, and he’s not sure which part of it is more arousing. He tries to imagine himself on his knees, Malfoy’s prick thick and red as he licks at it, and he has to shift to try to make himself more comfortable. He pushes the heel of his hand into his crotch, and flushes deeply when Malfoy laughs, low and soft.

“Is it that you _want_ me to touch you, Potter?” Malfoy trails fingers across the back of his neck, little licks of fire that curl through him. “Do you _want_ me to claim you in front of everyone?”

“Do you think you’re fooling your friends?” Harry’s voice is hoarse, his gaze locked on Malfoy, daring him silently.

“My friends know that I will do what I want, when I want, _who I want_ , and that I don’t care who is or isn’t watching,” Malfoy murmurs. He leans close, barely brushing his lips against Harry’s mouth, and even so the touch burns. “This is playing with fire,” Malfoy whispers into his skin, mouth trailing a path across his jaw and down the side of his neck. Harry twists to give him more access, and Malfoy nips at him, sucking a mark into place. “You can feel it, can’t you, Potter? The way that every touch makes you want more. The way your body responds. And I can smell it, I can tell how aroused you are. How ready. I bet that if I told you to meet me in the alcove outside, you would be there, facing the wall, robes flipped up and waiting for me.”

Harry wants to deny it, but his body says something else entirely. “Not in the alcove,” he manages to say, pulling back. He can’t say _no_ , not when Malfoy is touching him, and even though it’s been a month or more, he can’t _forget_ , either.

“I think we have their attention.”

What? Harry turns slowly, realizes that everyone is watching them. His breath goes short, his face flushed. “I was going to say Quidditch stands,” he says as quietly as he can manage. “But I think if we both get up to leave right now, McGonagall will have us doing lines for days.”

Malfoy arches one delicate eyebrow. “We’re of age, Potter. Technically, she can’t stop us from having whatever sort of relations we might enjoy.”

“And it’s Hogwarts, and there are rules, and there are _children_.” Most of whom are oblivious, but the teenagers seem to be talking now, whispering behind their hands as they watch Malfoy and him. Harry sucks in breath, stands slowly. “I’m going to go out to fly, since I don’t have class right now,” he says. “Getting on the pitch always clears my head.”

He trusts that Malfoy understands, that he won’t show up immediately because McGonagall will _kill_ them for flaunting their relationship. He hears the scrape of a chair behind him, knows it must be Malfoy standing because McGonagall calls out. “If I could have a moment of your time, Mr. Malfoy.”

There’s laughter in the background, but Harry escapes to leave Malfoy to take the blame this time. It isn’t necessarily brave, or good, but with his stomach clenched and his body aching, he doesn’t think he can do anything else.

#

Harry stays out on the pitch as long as he can, starting out in the air and eventually just sitting and relaxing, staring at the sky. Life seems remarkably quiet there, unlike when he’s inside the school and everything that has happened presses in on him. 

He’d thought his life was _too_ quiet after returning from the war, and now it’s too chaotic. He wonders if he’ll ever have a chance at normal, then touches his stomach and realizes that _no,_ he won’t. This _is_ his life now, so he’d best get used to it.

He heads back inside when it’s time for his next class, making his way into the crowds of students that are moving through the hallways. It is loud and noisy and for the first time in days, Harry simply blends in.

“Harry!” He looks up and spots Luna standing on the base of a statue off to one side, waving at him. He pushes past the throng of students and joins her. She smiles brightly. “I thought you might want to know that Draco is in his room. Neville told me, and I wanted to tell you, because he’s in a _mood_ , Neville says. Quite cross, and very different from how he’s been these last few days.” She leans in close, whispering, “You’re good for him, Harry. He’s not a horrible person. He just had a horrid life, and terrible influences.”

Harry shouldn’t skive off class. He really shouldn’t, not when he wants to pass his N.E.W.T.s with as many high marks as possible so he can be accepted into the first Auror class after graduation. But if Malfoy’s upset… and he did leave him to deal with McGonagall’s wrath alone.

He supposes this is a part of being a couple, even as confusing as their relationship is. “Thank you.”

The 8th year dormitory is completely empty when Harry arrives, his footsteps echoing on the stairs as he climbs to the boys’ dorms.

“I don’t want company, Pansy,” Malfoy shouts. “Go away.”

“It’s not Parkinson.” Harry manages to get a foot in the door before Malfoy can close it. “Neville said you’re in a snit, so I thought I’d come up. I shouldn’t have left you alone with McGonagall this morning. I’m sorry.”

Malfoy’s scowl twists his features into something that is all angles and points. He presses his lips thinly together, then steps back, yanking the door open. “It wasn’t you, Potter. If you’d been there, it would only have been worse. My father does _not_ approve of either my sexuality or my choice of partner.”

“Did you explain that it isn’t exactly a choice?” Harry asks, thinking that might help, if the Malfoys are aware that their son didn’t voluntarily align himself with Harry. Malfoy only shoots him a dark look and retreats behind the curtains of his bed, yanking them closed.

Apparently it doesn’t help.

Harry nudges the curtains aside, climbs into the bed with Malfoy and arranges himself sitting next to him, shoulder to shoulder, one hand at the base of Malfoy’s back. “I’m sorry your father’s being an arse. I think your mum likes me, at least, she doesn’t hate me completely. So you might be able to work with that. You know, I didn’t set out to make your life miserable.”

“You couldn’t have done better if you’d tried,” Malfoy sneers. “When I was young, my father wanted me to _be_ you. Then as I grew, when I spoke of you, he told me to _hush_ , as if merely expressing my irritation was an offense to his ears. And now… now you’re simply a reminder of the fact that he backed the wrong man, nearly killed his family, and now has lost all chance at the lineage continuing.”

Harry’s brow furrows, one hand dropping to his abdomen. “You didn’t mention—”

“I didn’t get the chance before he had us embroiled in a noisy row and threw me out,” Malfoy admits. “I’ll owl Mum eventually and explain the situation further, once he’s had time to calm down and might be likely to let the owl through. At the moment, however, I’m under threat of removal from the family tree and complete disinheritance, so I doubt I’m allowed to communicate with the family.”

_Tender_ is not a word Harry ever expected to associate with Malfoy. Unexpectedly erotic, yes. Passion, apparently. But this warmth inside of him, this need to slide his hand under Malfoy’s shirt and feel the sparking heat between them as he flattens his hand against Malfoy’s skin, this need to _anchor_ him somehow… this is entirely unexpected. “Your mum loves you,” he says quietly. “She loves you enough that she lied to Voldemort to save me, and she won’t let this continue. You’ll be back in good graces as soon as she manages to get him to listen to reason, and when they find out they’ll have a grandchild, I’m certain everything will be forgiven.” He makes a face. “Not that I’m looking forward to having your father as an in-law, Malfoy. I don’t know if we’ll ever truly get on, sorry.”

“I didn’t think you would.” Malfoy twists, lying down on the bed and stretching out. Harry can’t keep a hand on him without chasing him down, and he isn’t sure if he shouldn’t, isn’t even sure why he feels like he wants to. “You don’t have to worry, I’m not depressed. I’m not likely to do something mad; I just want to be on my own for a while.”

“I’m already missing class.” Harry gives in to instinct and stretches out, one hand fit to Malfoy’s hip as he tries to get comfortable lying next to him. “It’d be silly for me to go now, so I might as well stay. After all, this mess is ours, not just yours, apparently.”

Malfoy rolls over, cups Harry’s face. His expression is shuttered, eyes dark and wide. “I can’t promise I won’t take advantage if you’re here,” he says slowly. “Having you this close, it’s bloody hell on the senses. I can smell you. I can feel you, and I want to reach out and touch you. I want to strip you down and bury my face in your arse, open you up until you’re ready for me so I can fuck you again. Slow and deep, pushing into you until you scream my name.”

“That might be a bit public.” The words stutter in the middle, Harry’s breath suddenly tight. He feels heat between the cheeks of his arse, and moves, trying to get comfortable.

Malfoy smirks. “Remember that you’re a Wizard, Potter. That’s what privacy charms are for. We missed our chance in the hall earlier, after all.”

“You would really have done it, wouldn’t you?” Harry props his head up on one hand, watching him. “You would have spun me round to the wall, yanked my pants down and thrown my robes up, then shoved into me behind a charm so no one knew you were fucking me in plain sight.”

“I would have, and you would have loved it,” Malfoy murmurs. He has somehow managed to get Harry’s robes open, his mouth finding his collarbone, tongue licking a path that sends sparks through Harry. “Set a privacy charm. Now. If we’re supposedly soulmates, and you’re already pregnant, there’s no reason we can’t enjoy it.”

Harry sets the charms quickly, using several layered around the bed to hide sound, noise, scent, and even movement should the bed happen to shift. When he’s done, he realizes that Malfoy has stripped and is now completely naked. It’s the first time Harry’s had the luxury of looking at him when he’s not already on fire, and he realizes there is absolutely no doubt: whether he’s gay in general, or simply gay for Draco Malfoy, he is more attracted to this man than he ever realized he could be attracted to _anyone_. Everything he thought he didn’t want he hungers for now. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“Do you plan on staring for hours, Potter, or will you undress?”

He ends up tangled in his clothes before he can manage to get them off, Malfoy’s deft fingers helping him pry them loose from around his body. They throw the clothes across the end of the bed; Harry isn’t willing to risk dropping them outside the curtains where one of Malfoy’s roommates might notice them. Then he lies back as Malfoy surges over him, covering him.

Harry lifts his hips, tries to move to slot their pricks together because he wants to feel that friction. There’s a gush of wet and he cries out. His arse feels wet, swollen, sensitive against the sheets. He moans softly and Malfoy dips in close, covering his mouth and swallowing the sound.

It’s good, so good. Not like kissing a noodle, not like drowning in saliva. Malfoy nips at his lip and Harry chases him down, leaning up and into him, one hand at the nape of his neck to hold him there. His tongue darts out, tests and tastes, and Malfoy chases him back, pushing into his mouth and stroking, fucking him slowly.

“You said…” Harry’s voice trails into a groan. “You said you wanted to open me up. Fuck my arse with your tongue.” When Malfoy pulls back, Harry twists his hand into his hair, tugging to try to move him down his body. “Do it,” Harry whispers. “Fuck me open with your tongue. Open me up, then _fill me_. Hard and fast, slow and easy. Just do it, okay? My body wants you. _I want you_.” He yanks until Malfoy moves, sliding down his body, then gentles his touch. “Please.”

Malfoy smirks, both eyebrows going up. “Do you, Potter? I want to hear you begging for me. I want to hear you begging for my tongue, for my cock.” His lips trace a path down the line of Harry’s chest. He licks around the head of Harry’s cock, lapping up the sticky drip at the tip. Harry jerks his hips up, begging for more, but Malfoy doesn’t give it to him. He licks along his prick like a lolly, teases along his length, pushes one hand against Harry’s hip to keep him from moving too much.

“Fuck, Malfoy, _stop teasing and get your tongue in me_.”

Malfoy’s laugh is low and dark, vibrating against his skin. “Beg,” he whispers. He helps Harry bend his knees, pushes his legs back towards his chest, opening him. Harry thinks he might go mad with wanting and _waiting_. 

Harry whines, and when Malfoy whispers for him to be _louder_ , he lets himself cry out. “ _Fuck, Malfoy_. Oh fuck, please. Get your tongue in me, get your fucking _prick_ in me. Are you fucking _scared_ to fuck me? Just sodding _do it_ already.”

Malfoy reacts perfectly, shoving Harry’s legs back so hard that he’s almost bent in half, his tongue swiping across his hole. Harry feels a rush of wet, feels so completely _swollen_ as his prick bobs against his stomach, his arse bared to Malfoy’s touch. He wants Malfoy to be rough, to just _do it_ , but Malfoy takes his time instead. Long, languid licks, teasing around his hole, thrusting his tongue inside then chasing it with a finger. Opening Harry up slow and careful, completely unlike their first time. It threatens to undo him, leaves him shaking, barely able to hold his own legs as he shivers under Malfoy’s touch.

When he comes, it’s almost an afterthought, a sudden spurt of fluid over his own skin and his prick still hard like he’s ready for more. “Please,” he whispers, voice broken. “Oh fuck, please just fuck me now. Fuck me, Malfoy, I’m so fucking hard for you, wet for you, I need you inside of me. Fuck me, _please_.”

Malfoy surges up, helps Harry lower his legs as he settles himself between them, their cocks brushing when Malfoy tilts his hips. He brushes his mouth against Harry’s, still wet and Harry thinks it should be awful but he can taste musk and nothing else. “You want me to fuck you, Potter? Shove my cock inside of you and fill you up?”

“Yes.” Harry slides his hands down Malfoy’s back, fingertips digging in where sharp bones define his hips. He tilts his body, tries to give him entrance by movement alone. “Please.”

When Malfoy finally does drive in, he goes deep in one stroke, bottoming out with a pleased grunt that sends shivers through Harry. He didn’t think how much he might love the _sound_ of sex, the way Malfoy makes little noises as he fucks him, the sloppy sound of his prick moving through Harry’s tight, wet channel. The little whispers as Malfoy buries his face against Harry’s neck, murmuring things that Harry can’t understand but they still get him hot, still leave him wanting more. He clings to Malfoy, pulling him close, trying to help him go as deep as humanly possible inside of him. He doesn’t realize at first that he’s chanting, low and soft, a mixture of Malfoy’s name and _fuck_ over and over, begging him until Harry comes again, entire body bowed and taut while Malfoy strokes his arm and talks him through it.

Malfoy doesn’t last long after that, filling Harry with a low sigh and collapsing on top of him.

“Much better than class,” Harry whispers, and Malfoy snorts in response.

“I suppose it’s not a half bad way to spend an hour, as long as we’re already stuck with each other.”

Harry figures that’s as much of an expression of almost-affection as he might ever get out of Malfoy, and to be honest, he can’t argue the point. “I never thought I’d want sex,” he admits.

Malfoy pushes up on one elbow. “Not even with your right hand?”

Harry shrugs one shoulder. “That was good enough. Never really felt the need to get anyone else involved. And now… now I can’t keep my hands off of you. Figure you’ll be ready to go again soon, right? And all I can think is _all right then, I can handle that_. And I get all loose and wet and ready just thinking about you.”

“Bloody hell.” Malfoy shakes his head. “You have no bloody idea what sex between men is normally like. Instead you… it’s like you’re made for me, and I can’t get enough of you.”

“I’m thinking that might not be so bad. Feels good, anyway,” Harry admits. 

“Mmph.” Malfoy makes a non-committal noise as he pulls out and stretches next to Harry. “You might be right. We’ll have to test it out again. Once we’ve recovered.”

They make it through two more _tests_ before finally falling into sleep and resting before dinner. No one comments when Harry emerges from Malfoy’s room, but he sees the way everyone’s gaze follows them both. He reaches out to take Malfoy’s hand, tangling their fingers and holding his head high as they walk down to dinner together.


	5. CHAPTER FIVE

“Move, Longbottom.” Malfoy nudges between Harry and Neville at the Potions bench while everyone is still walking in. Slughorn is at the front of the room and he glances over at them before returning to whatever he was doing.

Harry wonders, sometimes, if Slughorn cares who partners who in the class. “Leave it, Malfoy,” he says quietly. “Neville and I are fine, and you’re doing all right with Zabini. And Hermione’s good with Padma. We don’t need to switch up again.”

Malfoy’s smile is sharp and thin. “Potter, you were my partner earlier in the term, and you will be my partner now.”

“This isn’t the time for possessive idiocy,” Harry hisses. He opens his mouth, fully intending to say something else but Slughorn’s loud cough interrupts him and he falls silent.

“Neville, go with Blaise,” Slughorn directs, and the use of familiar names still drives Harry nuts, as if Slughorn considers himself _chums_ with everyone in his class. As if they are _friends_ because they are the most advanced students. “I’d like to see what your keen Herbologist mind makes of this current mix. Even a minor variation in ingredients changes everything this time.”

Slughorn touches the bench in front of Harry and Malfoy, but he says nothing about their partnership, simply choosing to walk on and encourage everyone to get their books out and begin preparing for the lesson.

“Why?” Harry asks.

“Shouldn’t I want to work with my boyfriend?” Malfoy lifts one eyebrow. “Go collect the ingredients that are in bottles in the cabinets. I’ll take care of collecting the loose plant materials.”

It’s not exactly what he says, but how he chooses to phrase it that makes Harry tilt his head. “And I’ll chop while you prepare?” he asks.

Malfoy’s expression sours. “No. You will not touch ingredients, Potter. You are responsible for following the instructions, handling all timing and stirring, and ensuring that we take copious notes on the process and that everything works perfectly. I shall handle ingredients.”

“I’m not infirm,” Harry mutters irritatedly. “Madame Pomfrey said that it’s perfectly acceptable for me to still be in classes right now.”

“Do you want to argue about this in public, Potter?” Malfoy points at the cabinet. “I’d recommend collecting the spines before everyone else has taken them and we have to wait. We can talk about it later.”

Harry goes over to the cabinet, trying to ignore the rank scent that filters out of some of the vials. He holds his breath while he collects ingredients, balancing them carefully before he sets them on the bench, just hard enough to make a loud clunk. Malfoy glares at him, and Harry smiles.

“I need to _learn_ ,” he says quietly. “You can’t keep me from doing my classes.”

“Do you realize how long the list of substances that are recommended against while—”

Harry puts a hand over Malfoy’s mouth, leaning in close. “Do _not_ say that here.”

“Is there a problem?”

Harry drops his hand and puts space between them when Slughorn speaks. He hears a titter of laughter from somewhere in the room—Padma, he thinks. “We’re fine,” he says through tightly gritted teeth.

“Minor quarrel,” Malfoy says. “Simply the usual. Potter’s ready to pick out china patterns, and I’m barely ready to think past the next—”

“Malfoy!” Harry glares at him, and Malfoy simply smirks.

Slughorn sighs. “Boys. Leave your relationship outside this door. Potions are delicate things, and the wrong emotions can ruin a brew. You are both incredibly talented students, and if you are unable to prove yourself as brewing partners while you are involved, then I will separate you.” Message delivered, he moves away.

Harry reaches over, hand covering Malfoy’s, squeezing lightly until Malfoy meets his gaze. “Seriously,” Harry whispers. “I talked to Madame Pomfrey _specifically_ about Potions. I’m going to be dealing with this until after we take our N.E.W.T.s. I’m not at risk, and neither is…” He lets his voice trail off, can’t say the word when he’s pretty sure everyone in the room is trying to listen in. “I need good marks, and if you won’t let me do the work, I’ll be working with Neville instead of you.”

Malfoy’s jaw is tight, the muscle moving as he clenches his teeth. Harry reaches out without thinking, brushing fingers against that small knot of muscle, feeling the way Malfoy relaxes as tiny sparks of fire race up Harry’s hand, leaving him loose and relaxed and _wanting_. Malfoy’s expression shifts from angry to something softer, and Harry realizes that Malfoy is simply _worried_. Harry licks his lips. “I’ll be okay,” he says quietly. “I promise.”

One corner of Malfoy’s lip lifts in a sneer. “You’d better be.” He reaches for the first of the plants, Harry doesn’t even know which ones, fingers closing around the long stalks. He hesitates, then nudges it to Harry. “Chop it into pieces no longer than the tip of your pinkie fingernail,” he instructs curtly. “I am going to add seven drops of Nectar of the Dragon Poppy and begin stirring. You will be ready to add that on my instruction; do not be late.”

Harry loses himself in the rhythm of chopping, ready at just the right moment. They work together perfectly, finding the right pace, each one ready when the other needs a hand. Harry realizes that they aren’t only good together, they are _great_ together. They are something more when they work in concert like this than they are alone.

It’s terrifying to realize it, and yet, at the same time he wonders if it had been like this all along. If they’d been on the same side when everything began, would the war have been done that much more quickly? Could they have saved each other sooner?

“What are you smiling about now, Potter?” Malfoy asks.

“I don’t think we’ll ever stop having a life debt to each other,” Harry murmurs, his foot pressed against Malfoy’s where they stand, leaning just enough weight into him to make his presence known. He feels Malfoy shift and press back, and his smile grows. “I think our lives are entwined and we will always be saving each other, every day. The trick will be figuring out what things we need to be saved from, and where we’re good on our own.” He nudges him slightly with his elbow. “But we’ll figure it out.”

Malfoy laughs dryly. “You sound as if you think this is a very permanent situation.”

Harry doesn’t answer it, just nudges him again, because he’s getting the feeling that it might be. That it _is_. Soulmate implies something so much bigger than they are, and he’s not sure anything else will ever feel like this does right now.

They’ll figure it out. Together.

#

“Harry!”

He barely has time to turn before Ginny is barreling into him. His arms go out and around her, holding on as she hugs him. “Mum and Dad are here,” she whispers just loud enough that Harry wonders if Malfoy can hear her too. “They’re waiting in the 8th year common room.” She pulls back, lets out a small squeal. “Did you see this?” She tugs a necklace from under her robes, and no, Harry hasn’t seen it, but he frowns, not sure how this all fits together.

“Neville gave it to me,” she says excitedly. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

Malfoy elbows him sharply in the side, and Harry realizes he’s probably supposed to say something. “Er. Yes, it’s brilliant, Gin. Are you at that point already, with jewelry?” Because he remembers that gifts of jewelry are supposed to be significant, aren’t they?

She laughs happily, tucking her arm in his. “We are,” she says, tone low and confiding but still loud enough that anyone nearby could hear. Another sharp jab, and Harry finally catches on. It’s an _act_. A cover for her warning that her parents are here because _oh Merlin_ they are waiting for him.

McGonagall’s probably notified them, and they’ve come to talk to him. Maybe to yell at him, and Harry might admit he’d prefer to be yelled at in person rather than a Howler. At least this way Molly’s just as likely to hug him as scream the room down.

“Congratulations, Gin.” He smiles at her, and that, at least, is genuine. “You two are good together. He’s a good bloke, and you’re better with him than you ever were with me.”

“Yeah, well, I think we’ve both found our better place, haven’t we?” Ginny smirks, just for a moment, then leans in and kisses his cheek. “Go get your work done. Don’t forget to come down to dinner tonight.”

“That was one time.” They’ve only missed dinner completely once since they’ve started dating two weeks ago. And they were late twice. She might have a point, and when Harry darts a glance at Malfoy, he sees pointed features twisted into sharp amusement. Harry sighs. “Fine, we’ll be down for dinner. I promise. Does this… does this mean you’ll be sitting with us?”

He can almost hear the held breath around them as Ginny gently disengages. “Of course we will. You two have had enough time on your own, and you can sit with your friends now, can’t you?” She looks past him, nodding once at Malfoy. “That means your friends too, you know. Except Nott. He _still_ looks like he wants to kill Harry every time he stares at him.”

“I’ll talk to them.” Malfoy’s fingers steal close to entangle with Harry’s. “Perhaps they’ll join us, simply so I’m not left surrounded by lions.”

“We have at least one eagle,” Ginny says cheerily. “Luna will be there. So, see you there!” She waves as she turns and is quickly lost in the thick of the crowd.

“She would have made a brilliant Slytherin,” Malfoy murmurs, and Harry can’t disagree. She’s always been quite devious; it was one of the things Harry loved about her.

By the time they make it to the 8th year wing, the halls have cleared as students move into classrooms for lessons. Harry spots Dean and Seamus coming out of the door, and Seamus shakes his head.

“You’re braver than I am, mate, but don’t worry, no one else is in there right now,” Seamus assures him. “You blokes think you’re ready for this?”

Harry holds up their hands, still linked, and squeezes Malfoy’s hand. “I’m ready. Hopefully he is.”

“You’re not the one they’re likely to skewer,” Malfoy mutters. “Of course you’re ready. _You_ weren’t indirectly responsible for the death of a loved one.”

Harry turns to Malfoy, gripping his shoulders as Seamus and Dean head quickly away down the hall. “I’m not?” He asks. “I could’ve ended the war earlier. I could’ve known what the bloody hell I was doing. Hell, I could’ve avoided going to Bill and Fleur’s wedding, which was _attacked_. Malfoy, just by being _me_ and by being taken in by _them_ , I endangered them. Arthur was attacked. Molly had to _kill_ someone. We all lost people in the war, and you weren’t directly at fault for that. You saved my _life_ and they know it. This is my _family_ , Malfoy. They might not love you, but they’re bloody well going to accept you. That’s just how Molly is.”

At least, he prays that’s how Molly is with _Malfoy_. Harry can never know for sure, and Malfoy has a point. A very good point. But Harry has to trust in Molly’s better nature as he walks through the door, hand in hand with Malfoy.

Molly wraps Harry up in her arms before he even has a chance to get his footing. He grunts under the impact, hears the soft snort of laughter from Malfoy, then has to laugh himself when Molly does the same to him. Everything is worth it to see the surprised look in those raised eyebrows as Molly gathers Malfoy in, holding on tight for a long moment. When she finally sets him back on his feet, Harry claims his hand again, helping him stay upright.

“Harry.” She cradles his face, then moves back to Malfoy to do the same. “Draco. Dear boys. When I read the research that Hermione gathered it all made such perfect sense. If only we could have reached this point sooner; how much trouble that might have saved.”

Malfoy takes a step back and Harry tugs on his hand, refusing to let him go.

“So much pain that you’ve had to carry, my dear boy,” Molly murmurs, pulling Malfoy into another hug. “We could have taken you in. To think we never knew that you were family all along.”

“I’m not _family_ ,” Malfoy protests.

“If you’re going to make this about blood, we are indeed related,” Arthur says from his comfortable seat upon the sofa. “There are Blacks on our tree, and Weasleys on yours. But right now we’re talking about Harry, and that’s more important than some pureblood lineage.”

“You’re linked,” Molly says plainly. “Anyone with eyes could’ve seen it, if we’d only known to look. It’s obvious, isn’t it? And you two seem to have fallen into it easily enough.” Her gaze drops to their linked hands, her smile pleased when she looks at them again. “And _grandchildren_. Some day you’re going to give us grandchildren, Harry. Not with Ginny, of course, but apparently we might have Neville for that. Such a dear, sweet boy. Augusta has raised him well, hasn’t she? But you two!” She drags them both in to hug them once more. “Someday you two will be parents, little ones of your own.”

Harry glances at Malfoy before he thinks better of it. Molly inhales.

“Molly, dear,” Arthur cautions.

“Did you see that?” she asks. “I think our dear boys might already be going down that path. Why, Harry! This is neither the time nor the place—”

“It wasn’t exactly _planned_ ,” he blurts out. “He just… and we just…” How the hell is he supposed to say that he couldn’t help it, and Malfoy makes him feel better than anything else ever has? He feels the flush stealing over his skin, heating him up from the inside, and only Malfoy’s thumb sliding over his skin keeps him centered.

“He smells divine,” Malfoy says quietly. “It’s absolutely impossible to resist, but then, if you’ve read the research, I’m certain you’ll understand.”

The way Malfoy says it is almost clinical, a far cry from the times that he has whispered in Harry’s ear that he can’t resist, that the smell draws him in. But it still brings the memory to mind, and Harry flushes even more deeply, takes a step towards Malfoy and is glad when he feels the other boy leaning against him, shoulder to shoulder.

Molly is silent, gaze sweeping over them, pausing on the points where they touch. A soft smile appears, and she gestures towards the nearby sofa. “Sit. We should talk.”

“Is this where you yell?” Harry asks, but he sits, knee to knee and hip to hip, taking comfort in how close Malfoy is.

“No,” she says gently. “This is where we plan. Harry, I know you haven’t had much of a family life with your aunt and uncle, and Minerva told me that you wish to keep them in the dark about your situation, and now I understand why. It’s you that’s pregnant, am I right?”

When it’s said so baldly, Harry does his best not to flinch. He nods once. “Yes, it is.”

“Well then, you have a difficult year ahead, and you have some decisions to make.” She raises her finger, stopping him before he can speak. “I’m not going to tell you what to do. However, there are certain things that you will _need_ to do, and one is that you will need to plan how to break the news to your classmates. While there are certainly glamours that could conceal your condition, they are uncomfortable and unwieldy as they will never change your actual shape. And they could endanger you, as no one will understand the care you need to take. So boys, we will plan. We will make sure you get the care you need, and that you will be safe while you continue your education at Hogwarts. Draco, dear, are your parents aware of the situation?”

Malfoy presses his lips together. “They understand that I am in a relationship with Potter.”

Molly sighs. “Don’t you think that perhaps you ought to call each other by your given names?”

Harry looks at Malfoy, who raises an eyebrow at him in return. He can’t help but smile at the way Malfoy smirks. “No,” they both say.

Molly tsks quietly. “So they know about your relationship. Does that mean that Narcissa doesn’t know the full extent?” Her expression is clearly disapproving. “Would you like me to have a conversation with her? You will need her support, Draco, and it might be best if we work together to make sure you are both safe and comfortable.”

This is the kind of moment that changes lives, Harry is positive of that. When Malfoy nods, he relaxes a little, lets his held breath escape. They’re going to be okay. For the first time, he doesn’t feel like this is out of control and running away with them. He leans into Malfoy, feels the way Malfoy leans back, and together with the Weasleys, they start to plan.

#

In the end, the plan is simple: don’t hide. When Harry starts to show, he’ll simply tell the truth. When he needs to let people know, he will. Be open, honest.

It sounds easy, but Harry has a feeling it’s not that simple.

They go back to the 8th year dormitory together, fingers entangled when they walk into the room. Ron and Hermione glance over, nod, and go back to their work. Luna passes by, pausing to flit her fingers somewhere near Harry’s ear and smile to herself as she murmurs that _they’re doing well_ , whoever _they_ happen to be.

Nott glares daggers at them, but Harry’s getting used to that. He supposes they could stop everything right here, make it all known with one simple announcement about soulmates and bonding and pregnancy. Then Malfoy tugs his hand and Harry thinks better of it. All anyone needs to know is the public pieces; this fragile bond between him and Malfoy is still private.

Something touches his hand on the way by, and he glances down to see Parkinson raise her eyebrows. He coughs slightly, and when Malfoy pauses, Harry murmurs, “I’ll be up in a minute, all right?” He slips his fingers free, waits for Malfoy to leave, then makes his own way into the small kitchen the older students have been given. He puts a pot for tea on, and waits.

“When you hurt him, I will rip you to shreds, Potter.” Parkinson’s tone is deceptively mild. “You may be the Boy Who Lived and our Saviour, but you will still need to answer to me over the state of Draco’s heart.”

It’s exactly what he expected when he saw the look she gave him, but that doesn’t make finding the right response any simpler.

“I’m not planning on hurting him—”

“Of course you aren’t,” she interrupts. She stands right in front of him, hands on her hips, chin tilted up. From this angle, her tip-tilted nose is even more puglike than usual. “But this is how it begins, isn’t it? You see a weakness and you dive in, taking _advantage_ of him. Shag like rabbits for a few weeks, then you’ll be tossing him aside. Bloody hell, I can’t believe you kept him dangling for a month before you gave in in the first place. I thought he’d be done with you after that, but no, Draco simply _had_ to have you. Years of waiting, and now he has you, and what’s it all going to come to? Nothing, I’m sure, but I will _end_ you if you hurt him. Find a way to make him break it off with you when you’re done. Leave him some sense of self-respect at least.”

“I’m taking advantage of him?” Harry echoes those few words, storing the rest, trying to make sense of Parkinson’s rant.

“Of course you are. We can all bloody well see it, you know.” She tilts her head. “You have that innocent look about you, like you’ve absolutely no idea how you’ve affected him. But then you step right into the Potter-size spot that he’s left open and waiting for you. I don’t know what he’ll do when you step out of it again and leave him behind, but I’ve no doubt that you will, likely for some downtrodden war hero with those perfect _values_ that seem to matter so much to you.”

Harry blinks rapidly, unable to keep up. “I don’t know what you think I’m doing, but I’m not,” he says quietly. “Malfoy and I—it’s mutual. Believe me, I’m as much into him as he is into me. Er. In a manner of speaking.” He can’t help it, the images that flit through his mind of exactly how _into him_ Malfoy is. “I mean, we’re together now, Parkinson. Him and me, and it’s not going to end. He’s it for me, all right?”

She crosses her arms, takes a step even closer. “You’ve never dated a bloke before. Why now?”

“I’ve never actually truly dated a bird before, either,” he says. “Not past a dance or a kiss. I’ve spent more time with Malfoy _dating_ than I ever did with Cho or Ginny.” If _dating_ can be the right word for it. But they’ve talked like they’re friends, and they’re slowly getting to know each other. And of course, there’s the sex, and there’s never been _that_ before.

She purses her lips and makes an irritated noise. “Oh honestly, it _cannot_ be this simple. Are you actually _in love_ with the bloody git?”

“I don’t know.” He spreads his hands, because he has to be honest about it. “But it’s more than you think it is. This might’ve been unplanned at the start, but we’re in it now. He’s risking his family, and I’ve told mine as well. This isn’t something we’re hiding from anyone. This is it, Parkinson. This is us.”

She turns on her heel and is halfway out the door when the teapot shrills and she turns back. She jabs a finger towards his chest. “I meant what I said. If you hurt him, I will hex you into pieces and bury them where they will never be found. And Astoria will be right behind me. If you think your Weasley had a temper on her, you haven’t even _thought_ what mine might be like.”

She disappears with a slam of the door, leaving Harry alone with a screaming teapot and still not knowing exactly what happened, if he fixed the issue or made it worse. Mind still whirling, he sets the tea to steep and puts it on a tray with two mugs, then hunts down a house elf for some biscuits that actually sound as if they might appeal to his stomach and adds those to a plate.

Tea, biscuits, and he hopes to have a naked Malfoy in bed by the time he makes it up the stairs. It sounds like a rather nice way to spend the evening.

With a break for dinner, though. They did promise to be there.


	6. CHAPTER SIX

It gets easier, day by day. Ron and Hermione join them at meals, as do Neville, Ginny, and Luna. A day later, Parkinson inserts herself between Ron and Neville and informs them they need to make space for Zabini and the two Greengrass girls, so they do. Dean and Seamus drop in for dinner that night, and eventually the table is as full of Gryffindors, Slytherins, and a smattering of students from other houses as well, like Padma Patil and Terry Boot.

Harry finds himself talking to people he’s never actually met before: Slytherins that Ginny and Luna have had classes with, or students from younger years.

“Look what you started,” Luna murmurs one day, knocking his knee under the table with her own while conversation swirls around them. To his left, Malfoy is in the midst of an animated argument with Zabini, while Nott— _yes Nott_ —has his hand on Terry Boot’s knee under the table as if he thinks no one can see him. On Luna’s other side, Ginny is arguing Quidditch with two girls from Ravenclaw that Harry can’t remember the names of, while Neville is deep in a discussion about unusual plants with Hermione. Luna smiles as she watches him take it in.

“I didn’t do this,” Harry protests quietly. “All I did is… whatever I did with Malfoy.”

“I understand that you don’t want to take credit, Harry, and that’s quite all right.” She touches his knee soothingly. “But I think that you ought to come to terms with it before the wedding.”

“Wedding?” Harry chokes on the word, grabbing for water while Luna pats his back, her touch doing nothing to soothe the cough. He takes a long drink and realizes that Malfoy is staring at him when he’s done. “I didn’t say it; she did,” he says quickly.

Malfoy sighs. “Of course she did. Lovegood, you do realize that we are _not_ getting married any time soon, do you not?”

“Then what are you going to name the baby?”

Silence spreads out swiftly from where they sit, until soon the entire Great Hall sits quietly, as if they all wait for the reply. Luna simply smiles softly.

Harry wants to hate her, but it needs to come out sometime. “We haven’t actually talked about it yet,” He says firmly. “But Potter-Malfoy is one option.”

“Or Malfoy-Potter,” Malfoy adds. “Or simply Malfoy. I am, after all, the last of my line.”

“So am I,” Harry retorts. “If we’re going to use that argument, we have to use a hyphenated name.”

“Or pray we have two boys eventually,” Malfoy points out. “One Potter, one Malfoy.”

“We’re having more than one?” Harry hates the way his voice goes sharp. “We haven’t even managed to get through this one without trouble, Malfoy. Can’t we leave off discussions about another child until after this one’s born?”

“You’re pregnant?” Parkinson’s gaze goes sharp. “You—Harry Potter—are _pregnant_?”

“It could be Malfoy.”

She smirks. “But it’s not, and you just confirmed it. Besides, it’s usually the mother who argues against another pregnancy, and in this case, that’s you, Potter. Trust me, I’ve heard it often enough from my sisters-in-law. It’s a pureblood expectation after all—have as large a family as you can manage, as long as the magic breeds true. Not all lines are able to produce more than one or two children.”

Harry gives Malfoy a sharp look; Malfoy looked down on the Weasleys for the number of children they had, when it was considered a virtue?

Malfoy lifts one shoulder. “I was brought up to believe that those who were unable to breed were more pure than those that bred like rabbits.”

“We are _not_ impure!” Ginny yells.

Oh bloody hell. “Stop it.” Harry pushes to his feet, leans on the table to get between them. “We are _not_ going to start fighting now.”

“I said what I was _brought up to believe_ ,” Malfoy says sharply. “Did you not just hear me mention children? I fully intend to have as many children as Harry and I are able, and he is willing to bear.”

He says it as if this is all a foregone conclusion. As if it is forever, and Harry is sitting at home with children crawling around his feet. As if he will be bearing child after child, and… he sits down again quickly, feeling vaguely ill and a little dizzy. “Is that what this is about?” he whispers. “Is this about the Malfoy _name_? Is that why you’re fine with…” He gestures between the two of them. 

He’d thought it was something else, somehow. He’d thought that things were different. That they were becoming something _more_. But apparently he’s nothing more than a substitute brood mare, one of the proper gender so Malfoy can bloody well get it up and enjoy fucking him. Harry opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

“Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy.” Professor McGonagall’s voice interrupts any further argument. “If you would join me in my office, you have visitors.”

“Mum?” Ginny asks.

“Possibly.” Harry glances at Malfoy. He wants to reach for his hand, but it doesn’t feel like the right time, not now when he’s still trying to figure out his place in his life. “It might also be Malfoy’s parents.”

“Right.” Malfoy smoothes his robes carefully, the lines already perfect to Harry’s eyes before Malfoy starts. “We should likely get this done, then. I shall see you in class, Blaise.” He nods to the rest of the table and walks away without waiting for Harry.

“If you need anything, Harry, I’ll see you in Potions later,” Hermione says quietly. She touches his hand, and he smiles at her to say that everything’s okay, even though he’s not sure it is.

He’d thought everything was going so well, and now he has no idea anymore. All he can do is try to catch up with Malfoy and figure it out all over again.

#

The gargoyle is waiting when Harry arrives, giving him access to the stairwell and making a noise as if it is irritated at having to wait for him. By the time Harry makes it to the top of the stairs, Narcissa Malfoy is standing there, one hand lifted as if to reach for him but thankfully not actually touching him. “Is it true?” she asks.

“It’s true, Mother.”

She casts a dark look in Malfoy’s direction—Harry notices quickly that neither the Weasleys nor Lucius Malfoy are present. “You chose not to tell the truth when we last spoke; you should stay silent now.”

It irritates Harry, the way she dismisses him. “You know he couldn’t,” he says quickly, skirting around her and ending up perched on the arm of the chair where Malfoy sits. He could reach out and touch from here, but he simply leaves his hand resting on his own knee, within reach but not reaching out. “You know that his father didn’t approve, and if he’d brought up that I was _pregnant_ it would have only been worse. He’s your _son_. You shouldn’t listen to me before you listen to him. You should give him a chance, if you love him. And I’m thinking you do still love him, even though he’s bent, even though he’s with me.”

“I have known for years that Draco would be with you, if only he were given the chance,” Narcissa says, tone sharp. “It was obvious to anyone who took one moment to listen to him. He tried to hide behind disdain, but it was there in the way he spoke about you. In how _often_ he spoke of you.” She cocks one eyebrow and Harry can see her son in the expression. “What I did not expect was that he would defy us to do so, and try to deprive us of our lineage. Or that he would somehow find a way to still beget an heir of his own blood.”

“I am _not_ a brood mare,” Harry snaps. Between Malfoy talking about having an entire army of children, and Narcissa’s assumption that he’s done this _on purpose_ , Harry’s had enough. “It’s a bond. We’re soulmates. It just _is_ and it’s why we fight and why we can’t get enough of each other and why everything in my entire _world_ has always revolved around _Malfoy_ , even when I was running for my life from Voldemort. I was fighting a _war_ and it still always came back to _him_. He’s a part of me. And I’m a part of him, and we have to learn to deal with it because right now, everything’s better when we’re together. Which sounds sappy, but it’s true.”

He glances over at Malfoy, trying to read something in the completely blank set of his expression. “I didn’t want this,” Harry says quietly. “I thought he’d done something to me. I didn’t know it was just this _thing_ between us, and I thought he was trying to hurt me, or control me. And maybe you’d be happier if he was.”

“I just want my child to be happy,” Narcissa says calmly. “I want him to have children, and to love and be loved. I do not think you know what it truly means for a parent to love a child, Mr. Potter.”

It’s a dig against his history, against his upbringing, but it doesn’t work. Harry sucks in breath that feels like it’s gone from his lungs, tries to steady himself. “I think I do,” he whispers. “I think out of everyone here, I really, truly do. My mother loved me enough to die for me. Molly loved Fred enough to kill Bellatrix. You loved your son enough to lie to the absolute evil that had held you prisoner in order to save _me_. And I am going to love this child, and so is Malfoy, and right now that’s just a side point because he and I have to work out everything _else_ between us and come to terms with it. But we’re going to do this. We’ve already decided it, and for me it has nothing to do with name or lineage or heritage. Fine, I’m the last Potter, but _so what_. Name it Malfoy, _I don’t care_. All I care is that the baby is healthy, that Malfoy’s happy, and I’d rather I don’t die in the process.”

“You’re not going to die.”

The words are quiet and strong, and Malfoy looks up to meet Harry’s startled gaze. “You are not going to die,” Malfoy repeats. “Not if I have anything to do with it. If I wanted you dead, you would never have survived the war.”

“I know,” Harry says. He remembers that day in Malfoy Manor, and he remembers wondering at that time why Malfoy didn’t give him up. He thinks he knows now, and it doesn’t matter anymore. That’s all past, and they need to deal with the future.

Narcissa gestures for Harry to stand, and he does so as she circles around him, looking at him from all angles. “You will need clothing,” she states. “Robes that will expand, and your Muggle clothing, which can’t be easy to obtain since Muggle men do not experience pregnancy. I will set up an account for you and the child.”

“I have my own money.”

She smiles thinly. “Allow me to do this one thing, Mr. Potter. Harry, if I may.” He nods to allow her the use of his name, and she continues. “This is for the child—for my grandchild. You may spoil your family how you wish once the child arrives, but until then, let me act as a mother.”

“I’ll have two then.”

“Molly Weasley has made it quite plain that I shall have to share, yes.” Narcissa touches Malfoy’s cheek, her long fingers pressed against his skin. “Your father will come around in time, never fear. I do just want to see you well, my dear. Does he make you happy?”

Malfoy’s gaze drops, and Harry looks away, as if he could give him privacy while still standing here. The soft _yes_ is almost unheard, and by the time Harry glances back, Narcissa is bending to kiss Malfoy’s forehead. 

“I shall be coming by regularly with Molly Weasley, and we shall arrange for your antenatal care. You two take care of yourselves.” Narcissa brushes her lips against Harry’s forehead as well before she steps back. “Minerva.” She nods politely.

“Narcissa.” McGonagall steps from the back of the office, waiting until Narcissa disappears through the Floo before she speaks. “I believe you two have had more than enough to deal with already today. I shall contact your professors and explain that you are taking the day to rest, Mr. Potter, and that Mr. Malfoy is seeing to your wellbeing. Please do not make a liar of me.”

Harry hesitates, because that sounds as if they’re being told to skive off classes.

She gestures at the stairs. “Off with you both, before I change my mind.”

Harry grabs Malfoy’s hand without thinking, curling their fingers together in a haze of pleased sparks over his skin, and together they hurry out of her office and back towards their dorm.

#

They strip without talking about it, climbing into Malfoy’s bed and pulling the covers up over them both. Harry stretches out close to Malfoy, reveling in every point of contact between their bare skin as they curl together. Malfoy’s arm goes around Harry’s shoulder, bringing Harry’s head in towards his chest, Malfoy’s hand stroking along his shoulder. They lie there quietly, letting their hearts settle.

“I can’t tell if you were defending me, or arguing against me,” Malfoy says quietly. “Are you angry with me?”

Harry licks at his lips, trying to taste the words before he says them because he _was_ hurt and he doesn’t want to start an argument, not right now. “That depends. Are you using me to breed an army of Malfoys to take over the world?”

There is a soft snort. “I have no plans to take over the world. I wouldn’t mind more children, eventually, but no, I am not _using_ you. The fact that we _can_ have children, that I am a pureblood who is blessed with the possibility of having more than one… that is something to be celebrated.”

“And if I decide I don’t want any more after this one?”

He feels the way Malfoy goes tense beneath him, breathing shallow for a moment before he takes in one long breath and pushes it out, slowly relaxing. “Then I will have that one child and you, assuming we don’t decide to kill each other before long,” Malfoy says quietly.

“I don’t know what I’m going to want,” Harry says. He’s been thinking constantly since breakfast, mind in a whirl over everything that has been said. “I want to be an Auror, Malfoy. That means putting myself in danger, and being athletic. It’s not a career suited to waddling about like I’ve got a watermelon shoved up my shirt.”

“You might terrify the criminals into submission.” Malfoy smirks, and Harry thwaps his shoulder lightly.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Malfoy strokes his fingers down Harry’s back in one long motion, all the way to his tailbone before trailing back up along his spine. “And far be it from me to tell the Boy Who Lived that he can no longer save the world. My cousin fought the war while pregnant, did she not?”

“Tonks? Yes, she did.” Harry wasn’t around for most of that part, but he’s heard the stories and knows she was just as fierce as ever, fighting both before Teddy’s birth and after. “We don’t have to settle everything now. I just… you made it sound like you were thrilled to have found a bloke that you could treat like a pureblood wife, expecting me to pop out children, one right after the other, and that’s not what I’m going to do. I’m still me, Malfoy, and that isn’t going to change.”

“I have a difficult time imagining you being anything other than exactly what you are, Potter.” 

They go silent then, Harry’s breath warm where it slides across Malfoy’s chest, swirling around and coming back at him. There is one more thing, though. One more thing that he can’t let go.

“Did you want me, before this happened?”

“Who’s to say whether I wanted you before this, or whether this has always been a part of what’s between us?” Malfoy says quickly, as if he were anticipating the question. “You and I have always been linked in our own way.”

“I could never have left you to die,” Harry says.

“Nor I, you.”

“And yet.” Harry’s fingers skate across the silvered scars on Malfoy’s abdomen. He remembers that day, and remembers the anger and fear when he cast the spell and saw Malfoy split open on the floor. He presses his hand flat, stops the small motion when Malfoy touches him to still his hand.

“Forget about the past,” Malfoy tells him. “It doesn’t matter any more, does it? We are who we are _right now_ , and whether I fancied you, or you fancied me, or this hit us like a lightning bolt—it doesn’t matter, Potter.” He surges up over Harry, stretching out, hips just barely lowering to brush their cocks together. “This is what matters.”

This. The way he feels shot through with fire when Malfoy touches him. The way just this little hint of intimacy makes Harry so hard and wet that he aches with it, tilts his hips towards Malfoy and begs for more. Harry whines, and Malfoy settles against his hip, his own cock hard where it presses against Harry. He balances himself there, not quite atop Harry, just close enough that he can reach down between Harry’s legs, nudging them open, pushing one knee back until Malfoy can sink his fingers into him, two at once, as deep as they can go.

“Oh fuck,” Harry whispers, and Malfoy _does_. He slides his fingers in and out, almost leaving Harry bereft before he pushes back in, driving deep, curling and stroking him on the inside. He touches places that make Harry shiver, then he almost withdraws and does it all over again with three fingers this time, stretching Harry wide.

“Please,” Harry whines. “Oh fuck, Malfoy, get in me already. I need your bloody prick inside of me.”

“No.” Malfoy’s words are a soft puff of air against his pelvis, sliding over his aching cock. “I am going to make you come apart, Potter. I am going to make you scream so loud that the privacy charms are nothing, and everyone knows the you are _mine_.” He twists his fingers, and Harry arches up into him, desperate for more.

Harry pleads, begging in a constant stream of nonsensical babble, just sounds and words that mean _more please more_. He can’t think once Malfoy’s mouth is over his prick, when it’s all heat and warmth and hunger. He loves the way Malfoy lingers, the way he teases just behind Harry’s balls, strokes him with his tongue before letting it glide up and roll around the tip. Harry can’t watch him, can’t see the way Malfoy’s mouth stretches, all red and wide with Harry’s cock, or he’ll be done right now.

“I know what you want.” Malfoy slides down his body, ends up between his legs with his hands on Harry’s thighs, pushing them back towards his body. It lifts Harry’s arse from the mattress, leaves him wide open and naked, slick leaking out of him. When Malfoy’s tongue touches him, Harry cries out because _oh fuck_ that is so unbelievably good. It’s better than a blow job, better than anything else except maybe being fucked because the world feels _right_ when Malfoy has his prick deep inside of Harry. But his tongue… his tongue is fucking magic.

Malfoy keeps his fingers driving into Harry in slow strokes as he rims around the swollen edge of Harry’s arse, teases at his hole until he leaks even more, slick and sloppy beneath Malfoy’s ministrations. He tries to push back against Malfoy’s hands, tries to beg for more with his body, but Malfoy holds him still.

The sounds are murder on his ears, wet and hungry, slurping and licking before Malfoy takes his fingers out. He manages to fuck Harry with his tongue then, to push inside of him and eat him out with little satisfied whines and moans the entire time. Harry can’t move, can’t do anything but shiver and beg until his orgasm slips under his skin and he spurts spunk all over his own chest.

Malfoy stops before it gets too sensitive, pushing up and rising over Harry, kissing him with the taste of his own slick still on his lips. “Did you just come solely from the feel of my tongue in your arse?” Malfoy smirks, his tone absolutely chuffed, and Harry goes bright red.

“Apparently, yes.”

Something in Malfoy’s expression gentles. He uses one hand to hold himself up so he doesn’t crush Harry, while with the other he touches Harry’s cheek, thumb sliding against his skin. “You are something I never expected. What I wanted was something untouchable,” he murmurs. “You are so much more than I deserve.”

Harry reaches between them, wraps his fingers around Malfoy’s prick and loves the way Malfoy jerks his hips as if to fuck his hand. “Get in me,” Harry orders softly, and the moment is broken with Malfoy’s haste to comply.

He slides in easily, Harry wet enough to welcome him. Harry lifts his hips to help get the right angle, wraps his legs around Malfoy’s back. “Fuck me,” Harry whispers in his ear, his hands on Malfoy’s arse and squeezing. “Fuck me so hard that I can’t see straight. Fuck me until I get off again all over us both.”

Malfoy gives him a surprised look, manages to get a hand between them and around Harry’s cock. Malfoy raises one eyebrow when he finds it already hard again, then smirks. “So the question is, who comes first?”

Harry doesn’t actually _care_. “Just fuck me, Malfoy. Unless you don’t think you can do it.” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying, just that taunting Malfoy has always been fun and right now it means Malfoy growls softly and starts to push into him hard, fucking him over and over.

The bed moves with the strength of their motion, Malfoy holding Harry’s legs as he slides in and out, while Harry strips his own dick and whines with the pleasure of it. He begs for Malfoy to go deeper, harder, faster. He begs for _more more more_ and Malfoy obliges, fucking him hard until Harry’s balls draw up and he comes again, in thick white ropes across his chest, leaving him sticky and sated.

Malfoy is still hard, still moving slowly, lightly touching Harry everywhere that he can reach. Harry feels like he’s floating, like he is absolutely treasured at this moment, and he strokes Malfoy’s skin, idly petting him while he moves.

There are words, Harry thinks, but he doesn’t understand any of them, only the tone as if Malfoy speaks to someone precious. When he finally pushes in deep and shudders, Harry feels it as he fills him, and he kisses Malfoy lightly when he’s done.

But in the end, it’s the way Malfoy drags him down, presses a kiss to his temple and whispers something that might be _thank you_ that makes Harry shiver. He curls into him, trying to wrap around him and hold on tight until they fall asleep, tangled in each other.

It gets easier every day to just _be_ with each other, and it’s almost terrifying how much Harry wants to continue to wake up in his arms.

“I could fall in love with you,” he whispers, and it is the truth.


	7. EPILOGUE

**_Eight months later_ **

****Two months after giving birth, Harry still aches sometimes. His lower back hasn’t quite bounced back the way he thought it would, although he’s been assured he’ll be fine by the time he starts with the Auror Academy in September. He finds it funny that the date that he’ll be starting classes just happens to be in the same week as the one year anniversary of when he and Malfoy first fucked in the Potions room.

He pushes his way to his feet, Lyra cradled in the crook of one arm, his other hand solidly on the arm of the rocking chair to keep it from moving as well as keeping himself from falling back into it.

“I’ll take that.” Malfoy comes in with perfect timing, takes the bottle that Harry’s about to drop and sets it aside, then takes their sleeping daughter into his own care. He looks down at her, and Harry can see the resemblance between them, both pale-skinned with sharp features, even with her baby pudge. He isn’t sure if her eyes will stay silvery blue, or if they will change as she grows older. Her hair, on the other hand, is somewhere between them, and Harry swears it has a hint of red to it.

After all, his mother _was_ a redhead, and with Malfoy’s hair being such a pale blond, it only makes sense that the color might come through. It amuses Harry to no end, and seems to vaguely horrify Malfoy that their child _might_ be mistaken for a Weasley.

Harry slides in behind Malfoy, wrapping his arms around him, chin on his shoulder. “You need to put her down,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to his throat. “Your Mum’s going to be here soon, so we ought to get Lyra settled in her baby seat while she’s asleep and can’t fuss her way out of it.”

“This is going to be a bloody nightmare, just you wait and see,” Malfoy whispers in return, brushing his lips across the baby soft skin of her forehead. “Not you, darling, but your Grans. You see, they think they can take you _together_.”

“I wish we had a way of recording the weekend,” Harry says with a laugh. “Your mum and Molly, in one place, together, for forty-eight hours. And then think of your father and Arthur. It’s going to be bloody brilliant.”

“What’s going to be brilliant is you and I and absolutely no one to interrupt us until Sunday night’s dinner,” Malfoy replies. He reaches back with his free hand, lets it tangle in Harry’s hair so he can anchor him and kiss him gently. “My mother recommended that I might wish to court you. As I believe I’ve said before, generally courting comes _first_ , not _last_.”

“Since when have we ever done things the right way round.” Harry pulls back when he hears the distinctive whoosh of the fireplace, and voices raised in query quickly followed by the sound of a shouting portrait. He winces. “Your Great Aunt Walburga.”

“As eloquent as ever, isn’t she? I thought she’d be more delighted to see my father.”

Harry can only distinguish one word in three, but he gets the impression that the Malfoys are being chastised for consorting with blood traitors. “Apparently not,” he says dryly. “Let me settle Lyra and you go down and cover the portrait. She responds better to you than to me.”

“Aunt Walburga _likes_ me. She _hates_ you.”

“And I own the house, so she can bloody well stuff it,” Harry says with a grin. He reaches out, kissing Malfoy once more, reluctant to let him go.

He’s also reluctant to let Lyra out of his sight. They’ve been here almost entirely alone since she was born, right after they sat their N.E.W.T.s. They’ve spent time trying to create their family, and Harry’s loved every second of it. Oh, they’ve gone out to Diagon Alley or to family dinners at either Malfoy Manor or the Burrow. But in the end, they’ve always come back here, and they’ve rocked Lyra to sleep and set up the extendable ears so they can hear her from their own room if she fusses in the night.

He’s not sure what to do without her.

Harry’s half afraid that after nine months of pregnancy and two of fatherhood, suddenly being just him and Malfoy is going to destroy things somehow. They’ve never had the chance to be just _them_.

He manages to get Lyra strapped into the baby seat without waking her, although she snuffles as he makes his way down the stairs. He’s sure she can hear her grandparents, and he simply prays that she’ll be good for them and that he’ll be able to stand time without her.

“It’s going to be just fine, my dear boys.” Molly takes the carrier from Harry and hands it quickly to Narcissa, out of his reach. She hugs Harry first, then Malfoy. “You don’t need to worry about a thing. We _have_ raised eight children between us, and we can certainly handle one small baby for two days.”

“It’s not Lyra I’m worried about,” Malfoy says, pinning his father with a look. “Behave. All of you.”

“I’ve brought a project that I thought Lucius might want to offer an opinion on,” Arthur says, touching the pocket of his robes. He raises one finger when Lucius raises an eyebrow. “No hints, you’ll have to wait until we’re gone from here to see it. I think it’s something that will make our granddaughter very happy.”

The heavy tapestry mutes Walburga’s shrieks of outrage that _Black_ and a _Malfoy_ could share a common child with a _Weasley_. Lyra wriggles down in her chair, and Narcissa murmurs to her comfortingly.

“Go, before we change our minds,” Harry urges, because it’s tempting to snatch their daughter back.

“Yes, do go,” Malfoy drawls. “Potter and I will be just fine. In fact, I can’t think what we might possibly do.”

“Draco.” Narcissa’s voice is chiding. “You are _parents_. I do think you ought to be using familiar names.” Harry snorts because Malfoy was talking about _sex_ , and his mother is taking him to task about _names_. 

“Harry, dear, what is Lyra going to think?” Molly asks.

Harry looks at Malfoy and smiles, seeing that slow, fond smirk starting when Malfoy looks back at him. “He’s always been Malfoy to me,” he tells them. “And he will always _be_ Malfoy.” He can still see the doubt in their eyes, even though he and Malfoy have been fine once they got the first difficulties ironed out.

“Think of it as a pet name, Mother,” Malfoy says. “It is said with all fondness, I assure you. Do you agree, Potter?”

Harry has several carefully stored away memories, times when his name has spilled from Malfoy’s lips in a swift rush, begging for his touch. His smile grows. “Definitely.”

The look Narcissa gives him is doubtful, but Malfoy simply points to the Floo and raises one eyebrow, and somehow the Weasleys and Malfoys manage to gather up everything Lyra needs and head out.

“I don’t think they were reassured,” Harry says when they are finally gone, and they stand there staring at the Floo as if they might still hear Lyra fussing. “And I feel strange now.”

“Because it’s only you and I?” Malfoy tugs Harry in, kisses him slowly. “Or because you miss Lyra?”

“Since last September, my entire life has revolved around her,” Harry points out. “Our first time, how I felt after, the entirety of my pregnancy. She’s been with me for so long, it feels strange to let her go, even for a couple of days.”

Malfoy snorts. “Then perhaps I ought to spend some time reminding you of exactly what _else_ has been a part of your life for that same amount of time.”

“Even longer,” Harry says.

“Even longer,” Malfoy agrees.

They don’t bother to go upstairs. Malfoy nudges him to the couch and soon Harry is bent over the back of it, trousers and pants around his ankles as Malfoy thrusts into him and the portrait shrieks in protest at the noise. Harry doesn’t care; this is his house, and he can yell as loud as he wants now, so he does.

#

They snooze on the couch for a little while, until Harry wakes with his shoulder all pins and needles. Malfoy is lying on one side, looking at him, tracing patterns on his chest.

“What?” Harry asks, catching his hand and bringing it to his lips for a kiss.

“I couldn’t fall in love with you,” Malfoy says quietly, and Harry feels the bottom drop out of his world. “That’s impossible, Potter, because I cannot fall in love with someone when I am already there.” He laughs softly, his expression open and vulnerable, gaze ducked away from meeting Harry’s eyes. “You held my heart when I fancied you for years, and you clutched it even tighter when I caught your scent that day.”

“I love you, too.” Harry has known it for a while, but he saved the words for a moment like this. He’s said _I love you_ in a thousand wordless ways before now, with pumpkin juice and late night study sessions, or taking Lyra when she cried so Malfoy could sleep. And he has seen it in the little gestures from Malfoy as well: the way he rubbed Harry’s feet or back in the late stages of pregnancy, and the way he wakes up first to ensure that Kreacher has breakfast ready for them. Harry didn’t need the words, but he doesn’t want to hide them now that Malfoy’s broken the dam.

“Do you think the story of soulmates is true?” Malfoy’s fingers slide against Harry’s jawline, leaving little trails of sparks in their wake.

“We have Lyra,” Harry points out, because she is still their impossibility, and their treasure. “On the other hand, the power of love is incredible when combined with magic, so who knows what it can do. I don’t know if we were destined, or if we’ve always felt _something_ and we just had to get past a war to get where we are now. Maybe things would have been different for us without Voldemort.” He sees Malfoy wince at the name, and he draws him in to kiss him lightly.

“It doesn’t matter now, right?” Harry tells him. “Whether it’s true or not true, we _do_ have Lyra, and we have each other, and our family, and I will always remember the electricity I felt when I touched you that first time. I will always feel like I’m struck by lightning when we kiss, and I will always love you.”

Malfoy stares at him for a long time before quietly murmuring, “Same.”

“Same?” Harry raises his eyebrows, but he knows it doesn’t have the same effect as when Malfoy does.

“Same,” Malfoy repeats, with a slow smile. “I love you, Potter. And now I am going to send you off to the shower. We have reservations at an extremely posh establishment, because I do believe that some very public courting is called for.”

Harry manages to wrestle his way to sitting up, ignoring the mutters from behind the heavy cloth over the portrait. “Didn’t you just say that the courting is moot, since we’ve already had the baby and fantastic sex?”

Malfoy leans in, touches his lips. “Ah, but Potter, there is one thing we still haven’t done, and courting _always_ comes before the proposal. So go and get yourself ready, we have a new chapter to write in this story, and this one must be done in proper clothes.”

“I haven’t minded how much everything’s been done naked so far,” Harry points out.

Malfoy lifts one eyebrow, and Harry loves the fond, smirking twist of his lips. “As appealing as that is,” Malfoy says. “I do _not_ wish to share you with the rest of the world in that manner. So go get ready, and we’ll go out.”

Harry takes his hand, tugs him towards the stairs. “Come with me. Let me try to persuade you to make it a very whirlwind, quick courtship.”

“I don’t have any intention of dragging it out any longer than it has to be, Potter,” he murmurs, mouth pressed against the crook of Harry’s neck, sucking a mark there before he nudges him another step further. “But please, feel free to try to convince me as much as you’d like.”

They might be late for dinner. Again. And Harry honestly doesn’t care, because he has what he needs right here. It still seems like some kind of miracle that lightning could strike and leave him with this desperate need—and overwhelming love—for Malfoy, but there it is.

And Harry wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can leave a comment here or on [Livejournal](http://hd-erised.livejournal.com/27743.html).

**Author's Note:**

> You can leave a comment here or on [Livejournal](http://hd-erised.livejournal.com/27743.html).


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